A Last Chance
by LadyPorpoise
Summary: Sauron is destroyed, and it is less than a year before the Ringbearers are to leave Middle-Earth. The Gray Havens have become relatively quiet. But is it really? A lost minstrel, fading, and having driven Cirdan to the end of allowing him to pointlessly wander, will have a final drama to face before his life finally begins, or his life finally ends.
1. The Ticket is Punched

_A/N I don't own anything._

 _Now, if you have read my profile and my preferences, look at the update in my profile. Reviews welcome._

* * *

The waves just continued lapping against the sandy beaches and the rocks and the cliffs. It had always been this way. There may have been times where the sea was more rambunctious or quiet then what is "normal", but such happenings have grown less and less, especially after the fall of Sauron. Now, the tides just rose and fell when Ithil traversed through the heavens.

Some things simply do not change, even if it seems like a change. It was simply a pattern.

A watchful peace had fallen across the Havens and the small settlements surrounding it. The need of it was growing less and less as threats diminished, since said threats had no force or power to band them together. And to mention, more and more elves were leaving Middle-Earth almost every month at this point. It would be less than a year before the Ringbearers would come to leave Middle-Earth as well.

Círdan had heard about the hobbits and their exploits, especially the ones called Baggins. When the ancient elf heard that they were to join the keepers of the two elf-rings, the first thing that came to mind would be that they would be rejected, for the Straight Road permitted only the Eldar. The second thing was maybe it would be possible since, presumably, Tuor, father of Eärendil and grandfather of Elrond, managed to get by the enchanted isles and reach the Blessed Land (and somehow gain immortality), or so the rumors said. But that was before the world was changed, before Valinor was removed from Middle-Earth, and could only be reached through the Straight Road.

But, after hearing that Frodo had Arwen Undómiel's blessing (and of course both he and his uncle had held the One Ring), it could be done.

The Shipwright's next thoughts were how the deviation of strange ideas that come up in the House of Eärendil has passed down through the two generations, and possibly further. Elladan and Elrohir and their pranks, Arwen and her unique quirks…now he was reminded of Elrond's youth, and then Ereinion…

Círdan sighed softly. It has been over three thousand years since the last Noldorin king's demise, and still the wound felt deep at times. But he did not worry too much about it, since at this point, if Eru was merciful, Gil-Galad likely walked in the eaves of Tirion with others of his family. His true family. And, if the winds of Manwë cared to listen, would bring news of the Ringbearers' arrival to the House of Finwë. What a crowd that would be. A very welcome sight, but the Telerin lord could not help but feel some pity towards the periannath. The sight of Valinor would be great for them to endure, and then the splendor of the elves of said land.

Now he could not help but think about how he would react to seeing it all.

Yes, he has seen the splendor of Valinor on a number of occasions: primarily the War of Wrath, but never directly saw it…

Straying back to his first line of thought, Círdan eyed the sprawled letter on his desk from the confines of his study at the Gray Havens. The sound of the water, ships, people, and gulls were heard readily in the progressing evening. The elf's gaze were on a few lines in particular.

 _'…_ _This may sound preposterous indeed. However, one should consider what the periannath have endured. Yes, you are well versed in the happenings of the land; I know this very well, but think deeply, my lord and friend, what the periannath have experienced and witnessed. Their spirit is burdened with something akin to that of the Eldar, which is beyond what their kind should experience._

 _Already Frodo Baggins has received my daughter's blessing; to take her place on the White Ship, and I sense the Valar will grant him and his uncle passage into the Undying Lands._

 _They have done more than enough to prove their worthiness. If there is a chance for one to have solace, then they deserve to be informed of that option.'_

Círdan felt there was more to it than meets the eye, he knew it. Yes, he also sensed the Valar's approval of the mortal passengers. As long as they do not burn alive as they come to the Straight Road, then every worry about them was diminished. The sound of footsteps walking across polished floors, and Círdan looked up as the door opened and a watchman entered: all dressed in light blues and light leaf-mail with the heraldry of Lindon on his upper arms.

"An elf has been spotted wandering along the coast, and already three are keeping vigil over him. They sent me to inform you of this, though I do not fully understand why."

…Speak of the void, such…interesting, timing. How many years has it been since the last spotting? Círdan gazed at the watchman with ancient eyes, letting silence fill the room before he spoke, "Send a healer and a couple guards…and four horses." The Teleri stood.

"My lord?"

Círdan presumed this was a younger watchman. Perhaps he should have considered giving newly admitted guards a brief about "the elf", "Our poor visitor comes every once in a while, doing just what you saw, and only that…Now, after centuries: millennia even, I believe it is time that it ends." The Telerin lord moved to the threshold, and the other elf stepped aside, "Gather whom I have bidden quickly, for I fear there is not much time."

Without further question, both lord and guard went on their way. Yes, there is little time…

* * *

The sun was setting by the time the small company set out to the faint hills and forests and cliff sides; Círdan saw yet another ship depart the harbor and into the fading light during their minor haste. They did not go into a full out canter or gallop, rather a fast walk or a decently paced trot. Anor had dipped beneath the horizon by the time they arrived at the edge of a forest. The last elf that they encountered said that "he" was somewhere in the general region.

A backdrop was needed, for it was probably better for their occasional visitor (who's mind likely was very unstable (if it was not to begin with) not to detect their presence. This was the only chance they would get…They being Círdan, actually.

A hunched, tattered garbed figure was crouching on a rock, occasionally swaying with the slight breeze and the small bit of water that dashed against the rock. The person's clothing was mostly rags and patches, if it were even considered clothing at this point. As for the remains of a small black cloak, a small silver star could be discerned. But, that was patched on to the makeshift garment; possibly that little star has been ripped and resewn many times over. The skeletal figure had bare skin in some areas since the coverings were so bad. It was horrible and pitiful: the equivalent of Gollum.

The person was obviously shaking, from cold and emotional stress, and tired, glazed, lifeless eyes scoured the horizon. Wordless, soundless. Matted and tattered black hair billowed across the person's extremely gaunt face, obscuring things that are best left unseen. A burnt, withered, and scarred hand held the cloak as tight as one could manage while being partly crippled.

The elf company at the forest simply watched in silence, pitying and grieving for the lost legend, while Círdan kept his peace in his expression. Before, he had many reasons to hate and despise the person that this creature used to be. Kinslayings, treachery…Now, he truly was the equivalent of an elf version of Gollum. Isolated and obsessed with one thing. If he once feared becoming mad, the Teler only saw that it had finally manifested, likely centuries or even millennia ago. Alas that the poor Noldo did not see what it was he was getting himself into.

Círdan had cast his grudges aside years ago, and any sensible elf did as well. Instead of hate and anger, it was turned to pity and even compassion.

No one could get close, for while weak with great heart ache and physical ailments, the elf always kept away, and vanished for another period of years. Here, now, the Teler doubted he could manage that now. Fading involved a great amount of body and mental deterioration. He may have convinced himself he could escape fading and continue to roam the lands of Middle-Earth for eternity, fearing the everlasting dark, but nay, it is not possible. Not one soul can escape what must come to pass. But that is how that household operated in the past: in defiance of the Powers.

'I wonder if you even remember why you do this to begin with…' Círdan mused.

The healer-elleth seemed very watchful of their pursuit, trying to examine the withered elf from a distance. Abruptly said elf snapped his neck towards their direction, albeit unseeing. The elves of the Havens pulled back a little at the abruptness though, not desiring to take any chances. Eventually, the elf looked towards the other direction, before shakenly standing up and leaping down to the sand. The weakness in his legs was apparent, for he fell onto his face as soon as he landed, but determinedly got up again. The small bit of momentum from his weight (being hunched over) got him moving northwards.

"Back to the forest…" Círdan said quietly.

"He will not get far, my lord…he is so far gone at this point." The healer said with sadness, "Is he worth our time?"

Círdan turned his silver mount to the side, "There are no other pressing matters save the arrival of the Ringbearers, which is still many months away. We have come this far, and so has he…"

Vanishing into the thin forest, they kept a slow walk, for their soon-to-be charge was not making much progress from the rock he had been seated on. Eventually, the riders simply dismounted and continued watching while on foot. The horses just started to graze on what little grass was present.

The decrepit elf ended up wandering closer and closer to the water, whether intentionally or not, it was not certain. Eventually he just stopped and ended up staring at the now moonlit water; the waters washing over his tattered shoes. They continued to make him sway. Eventually he collapsed to his knees and fell over onto his side, the sea now waving over his entire body.

At that collapse the healer and one guard immediately ran to drag the body away from the unforgiving water in both force and temperature. The lord of the Havens and the other remaining elf walked faster than what is normal, but did not run. The first two that got to the fading elf threw their cloaks over him, and even beneath the coverings they could still see the quakes from cold, and possibly many odd sensations that they did not understand. The elleth withdrew a flint and small stick from her satchel and lit it, and the guard brushed some of the tattered clothing away, and held a boney arm up. The healer held the light close to the skin, and did not appear overly surprised that she could almost see right through the thin skin; even a slow beating artery and the bone.

"He is too far gone." She repeated, and looked at her approaching lord, "Are you sure…?"

"Why should we treat him differently? Is he not like any other fading elf?" Círdan questioned readily, "While he and others may cling to it, the history of those sorrowful days shall be forgotten eventually; very few now even remember it. Many even now have forgiven him of his misdeeds." A look of protest crossed everyone's features (save the likely unconscious Noldo), and the Teler frowned, "If you can stop behaving like petulant children that will be bitter to someone for pushing you over, especially after many ages, then please see to a dying soul and make him as comfortable as possible."

That shut every one up, and they wrapped the weightless Noldo up in the cloaks. One guard picked him up carefully, and silver eyes opened. Círdan caught their unfocused gaze with his own. The Teler did not even care if the elf was coherent or if he could even understand language anymore, and Círdan put on a look of pity, yet at the same a look that meant no argument for what needed to be done.

"This has gone for far too long, calaquendë. You have sought escape, even though there is none…Now, it is time for you to decide your fate, Maglor Fëanorion."

The ancient elf's voice was firm and unwavering, and Maglor's dullness faded to something akin to fear and horror. At least he could still comprehend words. In truth, it would not be too bad. Mere discussions…but to one of a house of destructive nature, and fearing the consequences of their actions, it would seem to them as if they were facing Námo. They had what was coming to them.

The guard bore Maglor away back to where the horses were grazing. Círdan followed everyone back, while silently lifting a prayer to Eru to give Maglor sense enough to seek forgiveness, before he would be eternally damned.

* * *

 _Ithil = moon._

 _Anor = sun._

 _Calaquende = light elf._

 _Elleth = female elf._


	2. Daeradar? A Way Out

_A/N Warning: Madness and possible insanity in this chapter. This is where the main angst is, I think. Macalaure is Maglor's Quenya mother name, and Maitmo is Meadhros'._

* * *

Fading elves are quirky. That is just how things are. One minute they are docile and lucid, then the next minute they are plotting intense murder or escape. Probably both. But the common traits in either of those "modes" is that they are normally reclusive, unable to function properly, or let alone be in the present. It is a fluctuation of extremes. Exposed fëar end up being locked in a static state; what with having lowered mental capacity and function before it is completely shut down, the will of the heart is all that is left. That means forever in self-pity, forever seeking vengeance, and so on.

Now, put that situation on the last (known) surviving son of Fëanor…let one say Maglor will be a unique case. But, like any other scenario of fading: it is not pleasant for the onlookers to behold something they can barely understand, and it must be extremely distressing for the one experiencing it, albeit they would have a hard time grasping that it is happening to them.

It had been close to two months since Maglor was brought to the Havens. Círdan during that time had kept away from where the Noldo was residing (against his will, if he was able to comprehend what just happened), and also having other matters to see to as well, although the fading elf was higher on the priority list. Círdan had ordered to be informed daily of the elf's wellbeing: improvements, decline; any change.

Maglor needed _real_ peace in comfort, not wandering aimlessly in the wilds seeking for something he will never find. The penance was not needed either. With that in mind, and what the Telerin lord said to a semi-conscious Maglor, it probably would be better if he stayed away until the elf was considered "stable".

The chances of that happening were slim, but if Maglor truly was lost in his misery, then at least he would not disappear in a cold and dark place alone. As much as the kinslayer probably deserved that fate, it was not a good way to go, especially after thousands of years being alone and wandering…he probably had met the terms in order to be released from Mandos, if he were there.

Back to the topic of fading…memory plays a common role in it. An elf may be fully aware of the present, or they, most often, are in some place from their past. Socializing with them can be very difficult with them being so fragile. One wrong word can cause a whole chain of problems.

Círdan stood on the balcony outside his own chambers, observing the small bit of activity down below. It was late in the afternoon, and the sun was beating down on the glimmering harbor. Elves bustled about doing their work: preparing for another ship to leave for Valinor, or bringing in a recent catch. Those were the visible happenings, while other things happened within the many halls and chambers.

The elf turned and headed back inside and left his rooms, looking about the sunlit, white hall, before proceeding down the left corridor.

* * *

Everything seemed to blend together. It would be light, and then dark, or colors would merge into a greyness that was either disturbing or calming. One moment he was awake, sitting in a chair somewhere, and then the next moment of awareness he was in bed smothered by warm sheets.

Even the memories, they sometimes could not be separated. The images…laughter of happiness could be easily mistaken for maniacal laughter, or it would seem completely out of place.

Fire…

Water…

Light…

Darkness…

The last thought issued a silent groan of distress from the elf, immediately wanting to shy away from vague but tormenting memories. It was almost a physical pain. And it was, down at his bandaged hand, and his heart. Through the scrambled bits of sanity that remained, he simply wondered why he tried thinking anymore. It was too much effort to try and understand. He was too tired.

Tired of everything.

Bad things came unbidden and the pain intensified. Ships, mentions of dark cliffs, wars, loss…

Oath…

Brothers…

It was too much, and thank the stars he blacked out before the onslaught was finished. Coming around again, he found himself under the familiar cocoon of fluffy warmth. That was his safe spot, above all else.

He did not like having to leave it, but there was little choice in the matter, since apparently he was not able to do for himself anymore, which was not good. Or it did not matter, when his thoughts drifted towards his youth: whatever faint memory of that time floated up to the surface.

There was one other problem too, no matter where his head might be: he had no voice.

It was gone.

How it was gone, he sometimes would forget, or dimly remember. Too much use from singing, or a wild animal managed to hurt his throat enough to make it useless. When he did forget what happened, it made him very sad. Even the hand. Voice and fingers were the key things to being a minstrel, and without either…well, who was he? What was he?

Or maybe the voice was not entirely gone…but he was unable to speak. It did not matter. Not anymore (not now at least).

Now that his mind was sort of working, he cautiously opened both eyes and saw there was light in the pale colored room. Light normally meant day, or some smaller light was lit nearby. But the light was enough to signify it was day.

Better than the night.

Somewhat content to just lie there, the elf dozed, while a little bit glad that the bad things were not trying to bring him more harm. A sound of footsteps was heard and he tensed. There were literally only two people he could tolerate being with without going through a nervous breakdown. Maybe one of the nice people were coming? That better be so. The sounds stopped, and again with caution he opened glassy eyes, and all the tension was released seeing it was one of them.

The nice-lady had a small smile, as always, but he felt that was for his sake than actual emotion. She said something while he drifted slightly after some calm washed over him, and that normally made him go blank. Still, voices always (well, most always) were welcome. It helped keep his mind sort of in check, when it was not going bonkers. There was a present, not just the past or the present-past.

He felt a gentle hand on his withered shoulder, and that made him snap to the present again. Wariness crossed his eyes again and ended up staring dangerously at the elleth.

She actually hesitated, and as calmly as she could she said in a soft and kind voice, as if speaking to some frightened child, "We do not want anything bad to happen, Macalaurë." Letting that sink in, she continued, "You can stay in bed if you like, but you need to drink some water."

Maglor finally noticed the cup that she held, now remembering what normally happened every day. The elf struggled to get the only arm with a functioning hand out. It was pathetic that he needed help sitting up as he could not support the little weight he had. Apparently the other nice person was there, since the pillows were shifted. Then once upright and supported, the cup was lifted to his lips and the Noldo drank nigh greedily. It felt nice in a throat that felt closed.

But, again unbidden memories of a similar situation, although from a different perspective, came to mind.

One hand useless, a living corpse, unsure and afraid…

Maitimo?

An odd sense of guilt flooded him again. Maitimo went through something similar to this, and survived. But with the scrambled images, Maglor felt like the small elfling again wanting his older brother to make all the hurt go away. Maitimo always had things under control. But Maglor had left him…so why should Maitimo come back, when he was abandoned? Is this vengeance? But they all had kept in touch on a regular basis, so would he know what was happening? Then there was fire, a chasm, and white light…

Maitimo was gone, and was not coming back. Ever.

Maglor issued forth a whine as tears filled his eyes and turned his head away from the water. Everything started to blur again, even the sounds became distant. There were touches and worried voices, but that seemed to offer no comfort. The bits of sanity were screaming again, trying to keep a grip on the present reality.

'Do not let it take you! Please-please, let someone end this misery that I am trapped in!'

The memories did not claim him, thank goodness, but it made him tired. The nice people were still near, and Maglor was sinking into the pillow mound that had been set up earlier. He felt cold too, but felt the warmth from the blankets and sheets surround him again. Calming, the Noldo started to drift again, but did not fall into deep sleep.

Again snapping out of it a little bit later, Maglor saw the face of the same elleth from earlier, but still her name was being elusive in his head. The elf-maid waited until she could see that the fading ellon was focused enough before she spoke.

"Macalaurë, there is something we would like to ask you. It is alright if you say no, but it may help you get through these hoops, and then hopefully the pain will stop."

Anything for the pain to stop. Death would be prefer-NO! Do _not_ think about that! The distress was visible and Maglor closed his eyes. The voice stopped talking, and he did not like it. He needed to hear more. Once he miraculously got a grip on his coherency again, grey eyes flickered opened again and a small sign showed that he was listening.

The elleth appeared relieved, "…someone would like to see you, and you know him. It may help you if you saw him and listened to what he has to say."

It may have helped if a name was mentioned, so that left Maglor searching through broken thoughts and memories of people he knew, which even included people that likely were still dead. Oddly enough he did not acknowledge the many factors that would prevent certain people from being where he was. Those factors included death and landscape. So, in his head, it could be anyone. Maglor hoped it would be naneth, or daeradar Finwë, or perhaps his brothers…Adar was a possibility too, but he was lower on the list because he likely would disapprove his son's situation.

Maglor gave a very small nod that gave his permission, and was rewarded with a smile. The lady left, and Maglor had slight struggle to move his head from its lolled position in his pillows. The lady vanished beyond the door, but the Noldo presumed the other nice person was still there, so it did not affect him too much.

The fading minstrel's attention drifted again, not really seeing anything, but was not being troubled by the bad things. Eventually the door opened again. The nice-elleth was back, but another one that he did not recognize was the one that entered the room. Said person did not approach immediately, but lingered close to the door, as if waiting and calculating.

Grey and silver robes, sort of thin, silver hair…a beard?

Men had beards, and grew grey when they reached their old age. But this person's face was not of a man, though it seemed a bit worn, so he must be an elf. There was only one elf that had a beard, at least one he knew very well. Though his hair was red, like naneth's and Maitimo's.

…But, is it possible that elves age like men do, when they reach a certain age? Is it possible that they get grey too?

With the links and possible ideas, Maglor could only discern one person with those features.

Mahtan.

* * *

Círdan stood quietly, allowing the Fëanorion all the time he needed to become familiar with his "intrusion", and, if the Valar were kind, would recognize him.

Maglor was less in a disarray since arriving, since being cleaned up, hair neatened, and wearing actual clothes, but still he appeared like a corpse. As is the way of fading. The Teler had been told that he was more focused on the present. Who knows how long that may last however. Círdan might have arrived right when that focus is dying.

Círdan waited patiently, looking for signs that indicated permission to approach or request to leave. Much to his slight, grim, joy, Maglor did seem to show some familiarity.

Maybe the wrong kind of familiarity.

The Noldo looked more miserable. Worming his burnt hand out of the cocoon he simply held it out as an elfling showing something that they stole or done wrong, or a hurt that they wanted to have go away. So confused and lost, as is normal, it can be very heart wrenching. Círdan resisted a sigh and kept his face calm, even though the emotions were quite strong. It is not fair to take advantage of Maglor's state of mind, but it would be far too late to try and reverse the effects; they could not simply haul him onto a ship either without his (or the Valar's) consent.

It was now or never.

The Telerin lord approached the side of the bed, and as carefully and cautiously he could manage, gently grasped the boney wrist with a calloused hand and slowly unwrapped the bandage. A fourth-degree burn was still on Maglor's palm, and the fingers slightly folded in on themselves as a result of destroyed tissues and tendons. Maglor ended up staring at the damage as if he never had seen it before.

"You know you have done some very bad things, little one." Círdan began lowly.

Maglor's brows furrowed at those words and sagged a little bit into the pillow mound. He also hung his head.

Círdan looked at the Noldo's face, gauging his reaction and future responses, "Do you remember what it is you did?"

There was nothing for a while; concentration and trepidation were lined on the gaunt face. A sigh escaped Maglor and further sagged into the mound, more lost and saddened, and it added to the stress. Círdan did not press further, sensing the vibes, and was close to regretting doing this in the first place. Perhaps he should just let Maglor fade, but no…that is not the way. An immortal life should not be destroyed. It simply is not done.

Tense silence drifted, and the onlookers watched with anticipation. Círdan maintained his position, while Maglor increasingly began to become worked up. The dam finally broke; Maglor suddenly lurched forward, being supported the elf that was close by before he could break extremely fragile bones. Silent and intense sobs wracked the skeletal body.

The elves and their lord could do nothing but try and offer comfort with their presence, while Círdan, from parental instinct, pulled the Noldo a bit closer to him and wrapped an arm about Maglor's shoulders while still holding his wrist. The elleth by the doorway could not help but sing quietly.

The weeping slowly dissipated in intensity, though there were gulps of air and small hiccups that persisted. Maglor was exhausted just from that, and actually sought Círdan's presence, while his befuddled head thought it was his grandfather. Or one of them at least.

Círdan spoke again while rubbing light circles on the broken elf's back, "You know, Macalaurë, you just do not want to face them." The Teler paused, again feeling a bit guilty having to put more pressure on a dying soul, but again it was necessary, "You will have to eventually."

Maglor shook his head from side to side, and it surprised all of them (even himself) that he spoke, or tried to, "C-can't…n-n-no…" It was obvious there was more he wanted to say, but the words could not come, and it hurt greatly to speak and he ended up coughing. The voice did not sound at all like the musical, beautiful, tenor that it once was.

Círdan watched as one of the others grabbed a cup of water and held it to Maglor's mouth, and once more he greedily drank from it once his coughing fit subsided. Still the elf-lord continued, "Yes, you can, little one, and it does not involve the Máhanaxar." Maglor paused, and slowly shot hopeless eyes up at the elf. Círdan returned the gaze evenly, and something close to a whisper, asked, "Allow me in?"

Osánwë was an art easily learned in the Blessed Realm, or easily used when of close bond in friendship. Since Círdan was neither from Valinor nor close in friendship to the son of Fëanor, the only way he had the talent was from having the Ring of Fire in his possession before the Istari came.

Maglor considered this. What good would that do? What knowledge would daeradar get out of his mess called a conscious? Why is he even asking for permission?

'It will be easier for you to voice your thoughts to me this way.'

…Oh…he did not think of that. Maglor could go on, and on, and on about _everything_ that he could remember about his grief. But the only thing he could fully grasp was the guilt and sorrow he felt for things that he could barely understand, 'There is no solace for me. Never has there been since…whenever this all began. I see burning, death, pain…light! The taunting, holy…'

Maglor moaned. The memory of the oath probably was the worst pain of all. The failure of keeping it, the knowledge of his claim over the Silmarils being void…and then the ill things that followed after escaping with the two holy gems.

Círdan kept silent for a moment, 'It does not have to be that way.'

'How? I deserve this, for whatever my crimes were. My doom is set.'

Círdan mentally frowned, 'Have you not wandered the shores of Endor for the last six thousand years? Is that not enough penance: a solitary life, grieving, mourning for all your evil works, and _wishing_ that you could change it?' That seemed to grab the Noldo's attention, and Maglor pondered over those words (half because he was confused at the wandering aspect, and _how_ long has it been?).

'Maca,' Círdan did not care if he used the shortened version of the ellon's name. There was no one around that could chop his head off for using that endearment, 'Not even wandering and becoming like a wild beast will be enough to cleanse you. Mourning and feeling guilty is the first step to salvation, but you are not doing the rest. You are not seeking forgiveness or release from the oath.'

Maglor stiffened partially, 'How can I seek forgiveness, or release? The way home is closed to me, forever. Manwë and Varda could _never_ forgive someone who always disobeyed their commands.'

'Did you not also utter the All-father's name when you took the oath?'

Now Maglor really did stiffen, and to the onlookers they were worried and curious about what was passing between him and their lord.

'B-blindly did we do t-that! In…'

Círdan interrupted, 'Yet you seem fully dedicated into believing that Ilúvatar heard the oath and has the everlasting darkness ready for you the moment you cease to exist in the land of the living. Why can you not believe that he could also grant you mercies and forgiveness that surpass even the Valar's? Did he not create them, as he did you and I? Is he not more powerful than any entity in Eä? In station _higher_ than any other?'

Maglor did not answer, now really thinking hard, while also trying to keep his grasp on reality, which was slowly slipping away, 'A-atar…'

'Fëanor has been dead for years, and likely has no memory or thought of the happenings of this world. His presence no longer applies here. You made the same oath in Tirion, and that is a different matter entirely. That matter is between you, the Valar, and Eru alone.

Even if you refused to return to Valinor and be judged, that does not mean the path of forgiveness was closed. As long as you live, it is still open, though that time is now short. The Straight Road may be closed to you, but there is still One person left that can release you from your torment.'

Círdan began to sense Maglor starting to drift, exhausted from his weeping earlier and likely their conversation. The tone the Teler could discern even showed it, 'How could I beseech Eru…? I am no Vala, nor am I Manwë…'

'You did not hesitate to believe he heard you in Tirion. Why would that be different now? There is still a way, Macalaurë, but only you can choose the road you wish to take.' Círdan gave a light hug to the frail elf, and spoke verbally, "Think on what I have told you, ion-nín."

With that, the lord of the havens and one of the others in the room eased Maglor onto his back, who by now was staring at the ceiling as if in a daze. The sun was beginning to set in the world outside.

The elleth that stood by the doorway moved to draw the curtains, likely to shield the presence of Eärendil's star, as much as that was a sad thing to do. But the reminder that a Silmaril could be seen every night would be another thing that would be distressing to the son of Fëanor. Quietly, Círdan and the one that sat by the bed the whole time left the room, and said elf turned to his lord.

"What should we do-?"

"Continue as before." Círdan answered quickly, "There should be a noticeable change in the next few days…I wish to hear of the dramatic change, should it occur."

The ellon nodded, and both servant and lord went their own ways. Círdan, on the way back to his rooms, felt tears streaming down his face. It has been done. Now, he could only pray earnestly to the heavens. If one acknowledged who the Noldo used to be before his downfall, it would be a terrible loss should he be destroyed entirely. There have been too many losses. All this…it is all the Marring's fault.

* * *

Maglor lay half awake, partly hurting, partly lost…all jumbled up in the swirls of time. He felt some sort of nagging at his spirit. One part said to hold the oath: one day he will get a Silmaril (a madman's thought), while the other said: It is pointless to cling to it and live miserably.

'See now…I am sure my father would be very displeased with me for being idle all those years. Wandering and desolate…but still he would be angry with me for not keeping my promise…'

Silence, for once his mind was empty, which was both good and bad. Good because that meant no risk of having a memory-fit, and bad because he thought he likely went mad. Well, madder, maybe. The nagging persisted, and even though he was exhausted, Maglor gave heed to it, and was in for a very long night. But it would be worth it…

* * *

 _A/N Cirdan using telepathy (Osanwe) without the close bond can be from either his age and having possessed one of the three elf rings. In my head, I tend to think OLD elves (especially ones from Cuivienen), to take more guardian/guiding/parental figures than anything else. And, well, Cirdan did raise a certain last high-elven king._

 _Adar/Atar = father_

 _Naneth = mother_

 _Daeradar = grandfather_

 _Ion-nin = my son._

 _Elleth = female elf_

 _Ellon = male elf._

 _Yeah, my interpretation of elves fading is probably the equivalent of hell for them._


	3. Desperate for Peace

_A/N ...Yeah, I'm late. I've been lazy :p But you know how it is sometimes...This may not be the best work, but I needed to update this, among other things. A quick thought: Would anyone be interested in reading an idea I have with Fingon and Maedhros in Mandos? It'd probably_ _correlate with this story well, with the theme and all. Let me know, please. My other big project: I'll get to the Cuivnenen eventually._

* * *

"The Fëanorian has been quieter; less erratic."

"Calmer then?"

"Yes, though we are getting the sense that he wants to do more than sulk and wallow in self-pity."

A week, and that is the only major change? It is a small, good change, but not exactly what Círdan hoped for. Blasted pride on all the Noldor, even when they are literally dying. Why. Why does that seem to be a trait in all of them? The Teler could barely remember the time when they were not like this, a time under starlight. Valinor truly was a blessing, if only the children that were born there were tempered in the knowledge of what it cost them to get to that land in the first place.

A fault on the parents, mostly, but he would not dwell on that now.

"What sort of activity do you believe he may want to engage in? I doubt greatly he would try and play any instrument being depressed, and practically unable to with his withered hand and disused voice."

The elf shrugged helplessly. But then an idea sparked in his head, "Could he not play a harp with one hand? A simple tune may still be engrained into his memory: nothing too complicated that would require both hands."

The elf-lord thought on that. That may be true. Círdan exhaled slowly, "Movement may help anyway, even a small amount…" The Teler looked at the silver star that they had kept from the makeshift cloak. Recently he had a tailor look at it, and inquired if she could try and replicate it: a clean, fresh, star, instead of worn threads and dull grey. The skill to make a direct copy was about forgotten at this point in time, as the elves waned in many aspects of their lives and lifestyle. But it was worth a try, "…a small harp may do. But, if he does try to use both hands, let him, and let him come to a realization that the right is practically useless should he forget the damage, instead of restraint."

Restraint normally had bad results…but sometimes it was needed. Ranging from the simple grasps to avoid unnecessary hurt, to all the way tying them down to the bed.

The ellon gave a silent bow, and taking no response as dismissal, left to carry out the suggested task.

Círdan continued looking at the Fëanorian star, before drawing a blank for a moment and his attention drifted towards a blank parchment. The inkwell was nearby, and the stupid pen. It was almost begging the elf to write something; the something being a letter to the Peredhel. Would Elrond's presence help? Or cause more grief? Maglor and Maedhros _did_ take Elrond and his twin from the Havens as ransom, and with the former's mind being unstable…

It would be risky to inform Elrond of Maglor. The Peredhel likely would come early just to see his foster-father, and who knows what panic grief attack might happen.

During the ages, the lord of Imladris occasionally inquired of Maglor's whereabouts: his wellbeing (whatever could be gauged from a distance). Very early at the start of the Second Age, it normally was: singing the world of all the woes the Noldor brought, but otherwise strong in body. Later, as the years drawled by, the requests became less and less, and the answers always were: Singing the world of all the woes the Noldor have brought, albeit his voice grows quiet and raw. The hröa is slowly dying, and is completely withdrawn.

Eventually the letters concerning Maglor stopped completely.

It would be abrupt for both the Imladris lord and the fading elf. The first all of a sudden hearing that his foster-father is in the Grey Havens (dying as well) would cause…something. And the latter, well…the attacks.

Círdan closed his eyes briefly. Dealing with fading elves always were a pain in the neck, though the feeling was not in spite of them. It simply was hard to help them and deal with all the havoc that happens. It was _impossible_ to keep a stone heart or straight face. To some degree, the onlookers might even feel the physical pain.

Círdan sent a death glare at the parchment, wishing it away. But, he relented and started to write, if for the sake of just writing it. Whether he would burn it in the hearth or actually send it, he was not sure.

* * *

No, no, no! No more being confined to the safe spot! Wait, why would he want to leave it if it was a safe spot? Maglor was not entirely sure, but whatever the reason was, he could not stay here anymore.

The night that daeradar…at most he believed it to be Mahtan, after he left, it was peaceful, and that lasted for several days. The hurt, the guilt, everything was gone. But he soon came to realize that it was just a small glimpse of what it would be like without the burdens weighing down his shoulders. It was not fair. _Not_ fair. Why did it have to go? Why did he have to be over encumbered with all the bad things again?

Or was he refusing to accept the weightlessness? Maglor was not sure what was happening anymore: whether he imagined not being burdened or if the feeling of release was actually true. All he knew is that he was at peace (sort of), and now, in the afternoon, it was all coming back.

Out in the reality and from the war in his mind, Maglor was seated outside on the balcony, not seeing anything that was happening below.

Maglor thought. He always thought: be it by his own will or not. The poor elf _tried_ to think about what daeradar said. It was so hard, just so hard…did daeradar not see that? Did none of them see it? Why then were they trying to make him do something when it was clear that he could not? Why were they keeping him alive anyway?

Why were they letting _him_ decide his fate?

"Macalaurë."

Maglor started and about fell forward out of his seat. Someone obviously prevented that. So much for dignity when he cannot even stay still for a second. Maglor moaned in defeat, not caring who it was for the moment.

There was a pause, "…There is something we would like to give you." Maglor turned his head slightly in slight confusion.

Give? Give what? He did not deserve to be given anything. Despite these thoughts, he gave no indication that he refused the offer. Maglor vaguely saw the person wave a hand, and before he knew it a small table was placed on his left. Soon, a silver thing was put on it, and the thing had thin vertical strings at the center of it. The elf searched his memory for the name of the object.

A harp. It was a harp.

Maglor put on a look of bewilderment.

"You were once a renowned minstrel, long ago…and still are. We thought it may help a little bit…"

It does not really help when one cannot play it. Maglor felt the memory of the pain in his hand again, and he desperately wished he could clench it.

If only…

Maglor only stared at the instrument with dejection, the darkness in his eyes growing only deeper. Little was he aware of the sad and disappointed frowns coming from the two people that were nearby. Maglor was sure they were going to take it away, since he had shown only sadness towards the offer.

'Idiot,' he darkly mused, 'you can see that they are trying to help: help you find meaning in the world, and to thrive again. Why then do you show disinterest? Ah…the pain is so much…Too much…Please make it stop!'

The Noldo shuddered and leaned back into his seat, head beginning to flop onto his shoulder. Only that was stopped by a pillow being placed in the way. Maglor did not really acknowledge it: the headache coming sharp and strong, but at least it was eased with the soft cushion. The lack of answer made the others sigh.

"We will leave it here; in case you change your mind."

Gentle touches were felt again, but now Maglor was simply too tired to take notice of it. Being left alone unsettled him, but it allowed him to try and think, and ponder.

Why is he not interested in the one thing that could possibly bring him joy? Maglor figured it had something to do with only knowing the sad music he had played constantly, and the fact that those were very prominent in his mind. The Noldo strained his bad hearing to hear the sounds outside.

Seagulls, the waves, and the bustling of people. And singing?

The gulls and seas instilled a deep longing and sadness from memories of the holy land: his home, and the cursed Silmaril that likely has sunken into Ulmo's realm. Maglor half sobbed at the feeling. Well, good, then the Valar can have that thing; much like they have access to Eärendil's.

'No…it is not theirs…it is father's…'

And at the same time the gems did not belong to him. Now Maglor really started to think. Could he beseech Eru for release and forgiveness…? Why would it be difficult then? Daeradar made it clear that Maglor believed the All-father heard the house of Fëanor in Tirion, when the Oath was pledged. But again, it was made in utter madness. Strange, a new thought came up…

Their claim to the Silmarils are void. Could it also mean that Manwë and Varda released them from the Oath at the time? Does it still apply now?

Maglor struggled moving his arm with the functional hand to the instrument, for a moment letting his withered fingers trace over the wood, half in wonder and half in trepidation. Then without really knowing it, plucked one of the strings. The sweet sound rippled in the air, and the elf became a bit more attentive. So many memories from that sound…pleasurable moments, special occasions, or mournful things.

Now, now…do not get too lost in them. Still Maglor idly plucked the single string, long transitions between each. Returning to his former line of thinking…Why would the king and queen of Arda be that merciful to such a wretch as he? Blood-stained hands, a liar, a kidnapper even! Yet through _all_ that he kept regretting and mourning…

His way of redemption truly is _not_ enough. It would _never_ be enough.

And all that time _wasted_ , because he was too _selfish_ to accept that fact, and not accept redemption while it was still there. It _still_ is there!

Maglor about knocked the harp over in his temporary state of despair. The Noldo struggled to stand up, and did so, and went to the railing, half leaning over it. He did not even notice the other elves coming up to him and lay firm but gentle hands to prevent him from leaping over the edge, should he make the attempt.

Maglor was not thinking about suicide. The Noldo's breath was hitched, and he trembled greatly. It was so cold just then…Oh, he has been so foolish, a maniac! He let out an anguished sob and his legs buckled beneath. No more than a whisper, the elf rasped beneath his breath. The three elves surrounding the Fëanorion could not understand his words, or barely make them out his voice was so quiet and _gone_. But they could get a few snippets of the plea.

"…I will face my doom…whatever punishment deemed fit…But I beg for forgiveness and cleansing…Peace of spirit and mind ere I pass…"

The elves waited in anticipation as Maglor ranted, or "beg" as he said. The Noldo's shoulders trembled still, and it seemed an eternity before it stopped. A few things happened then after. Maglor gave a long suffering sigh, of relief, the tense muscles actually relaxed from years of burden and guilt. As much as these good signs lightened the caretakers, they did not like seeing Maglor become limp as a ragdoll, and would have thudded on the ground without mercy if the hands were not on him.

Of all the times, the Fëanorion actually slept peacefully.

In stunned silence, the three onlookers looked from the unconscious elf and at each other, before one of them said, "Inform hir Círdan of this…I think this is what he was looking for. And let us get him," looking down at the exhausted Noldo, "back into bed."

One elleth did the former, and the others effortlessly lifted the fading elf up and into one of their arms, and back into the "safety spot". They then left Maglor, knowing that he would not come to for a while. But they did not notice the faint smile gracing the gaunt ellon's face.


	4. The Road Splits

_A/N ...What happened? Alright...so it may be self advertising, but since I may not get to my "Songs are Fairer Elsewhere" in a while...I will simply say, for those who might be reading that story, that writer's block hit hard, and the months have been a bit on a loop/stress :P I am not even in school yet, so that is not even an excuse. I WILL get to it, I know that much._

 _Thank you to those who have tagged along for this drama. Rushed this chapter will be (written in about two hours with brief skimming), hopefully it is alright._

* * *

 _'…_ _It is with mixed feelings that I send this to you, Elrond, that Maglor is at the Haven's under our care. His condition is very poor, and I know not when or if he will finally disappear. I have already attempted to get him to see reason of his folly, yet it may be too late. Eru knows his suffering, and his mercies may be the only way._

 _I will not prevent you from coming on your own volition, but I advise coming alone, if for the sake of Maglor. You know well the effects of succumbing to this mortal world.'_

There. He finally gave into the urge. Círdan now stared with a faint pink color on his face at the parchment. Now, will he toss it into the fire or actually send it? There are so many things that could go _wrong_ if he sends it. Maglor really going insane or finally keeling over…Well, most the bad factors involve Maglor's condition. Elrond, Círdan was sure that he could handle this, as long as it does not remind him of Celebrían. Or Elros. Or…

Probably too many people, or Círdan really does not trust Elrond to not slip into those depressive states.

The old elf heaved a big sigh and slouched back into his seat in a very un-elvish matter. The stress was finally getting to him. Oh, how much he wished things could be easy to deal with. No stubborn people, no _dying_ people…The list could go on for quite a while.

…All the stress came from dealing with Maglor.

Círdan really did not want to keep thinking about the Noldo every second of the day, but he could not help _but_ think about the poor elf. He was not cold hearted when it came to Maglor, but even in these difficult circumstances, there really needs to be some limits in order to retain one's own sanity and ability to continue pushing through. The Teler briefly wondered if that was part of fading also: getting everyone wrapped around your finger. Círdan knew those elves could not help that part, yet…maybe it was intentional, so they could get help. That would be fair enough for them, if it were not for a lot of cases where they got themselves in that mess, by delaying their departure. Maglor…

 _Stop it_.

Círdan rubbed his forehead with one hand. Yes, most definitely it is the stress. Then the door knocked.

'I am going to lose my mind also. At least Maglor would not be alone in that…'

"Enter." Círdan answered wearily, and an elf-maid entered looking a bit lost and even startled. The elf-lord put on an even mask and gave her a certain look that meant for her to speak.

"M-maglor…he…he seemed to lose his grasp on reality or, everything, rather, and collapsed onto the ground and started saying things. And then…he went slack."

Círdan straightened up a bit at this. Was this what he was hoping for? The elf's heart lifted slightly, while at the same time dropped. It had to be in a dramatic way too. Without even saying anything he stood up and was to walk past the other elf.

"M-my lord?' She stammered. The stress was getting to her also.

"I must see." Círdan answered readily. He then stopped suddenly and turned back to the desk, grabbing the letter he had just written, "Attach this to a messenger bird for Imladris. And take a couple days for yourself." He just gave the poor elf the paper before moving down the hall.

The elleth just stood there for a moment, trying to understand what just happened. Oh…this job can take much from someone, but she was used to it. She went to do what her lord bid her to do with the parchment; not even reading the contents of it.

* * *

It did not take long for Círdan to reach the Noldo's room and came in unannounced, which surprised the ones who were awake. Three were, and Maglor again was listless and asleep on the bed.

"Hir Círdan," another elf-maid said quickly, recovering from the abrupt entry, "We did not expect…"

"You may take a few days off, but one I will need a word with before then. This has been difficult for all of us." Círdan came over to the side of the bed. He looked back up to see the still-shocked elves, "Two of you may go now." Looking at the elleth that addressed him earlier meant that she was to stay.

The two that were dismissed did not leave immediately, but they did eventually. The she-elf slowly came to the opposite side of where Círdan stood, who by now was looking at the withered husk of Maglor. It was quiet during that time, and the healer was beginning to become uneasy with it.

"I only received a small summary of what happened…" The Telerin lord broke the silence finally, "What lead to this collapse?"

Inwardly the elf-maid felt relieved at sound being present, "We gave him the harp…and he showed sadness to it. We let him be while being discreetly watchful. He did strum one string a little bit. Without even expecting it he became restless and headed to the railing." She paused, remembering her temporary panic about thinking Maglor leaping over the edge, "…we kept him from jumping if he was to attempt that, but he simply fell on his knees and seemed to plead for something…Even with elvish hearing, we could not discern the words."

Círdan silently took this in. Near the end of the small tale he pulled the blanket back to reveal the Noldo's face. Maglor looked peaceful, more so than the last few times he slept. Maglor did seem more worn and exhausted though, if it were even possible. He did not even look distressed.

The elf-maid in the room stood in tense silence, gauging for any reactions. When her lord moved the sheet from the dying elf, she looked at the Teler's expression. What she saw surprised her. A whole lot of relief, maybe even happiness, yet there was a bit of glistening in the elder's eyes. When Círdan seemed satisfied with what he saw, he gave a sad and somewhat happy smile in her direction.

"He finally let all those burdens go." Círdan simply said.

The elleth's heart lifted, but she looked concerned at the lingering sadness.

Círdan caught on with this. He gave a soft sigh, "If this were done earlier, then he would have a greater chance to live. But this is really late in the process, yes?"

"It is…"

Then there was still a good chance that Maglor could die before reaching Valinor, let alone even get on a ship. If Maglor finally accepted what is supposed to come, he likely has nothing else to live for. Oh, but there is. So much to live for…

The elf-maid spoke again, tentatively, "Should…we not get him on a ship as soon as possible?"

They should…but they should when Maglor was more stable and less in this near-death-state. He may stay that way until he could be healed in the West, but they could try to improve his health until then. It was all timing, and time was something little they had. Even the people, it would make it less stressful on his part to be with people he knew, or thought he knew. But the only ship that would contain such people would sail in two months.

Even when the path is the right one, it still will have its own trials. If not more difficult ones.

Círdan let out another exhale and turned to get another seat, "We will wait, and try and get him prepared to endure such a taxing trip. I may need to confirm that he has let go of his guilt also…" The elf-lord glanced at the other awake occupant, "You may leave now, and thank you for all you have done."

The elleth's heart warmed a bit, but she could not simply leave her lord and charge alone, "Let me stay and assist. You intend to stay with him more, my lord?" An affirming nod, "…please, you may need some help in this."

Círdan offered a wry smile, "I raised an elf-king. Yet even that I had help with…But, I insist you take a break. You may return in a day, if that suits well."

The elleth nodded. That would work alright. She offered a light bow to take her leave and left the room.

Círdan watched before he turned to grab a chair and placed it next to the head of the bed, and sat down again. Things could only turn for the worse or get better, but one thing is probably certain: Maglor may return whole, in one way or another. For now, he could only wait and see. There was Elrond to consider, but that could wait…

Círdan placed a hand gently on Maglor's forehead, and to his slight surprise the Noldo flinched in response. The Teler was hopeful the fading elf would do more than that, and the wish was granted.

* * *

Maglor opened his eyes to mere slits; not really seeing except a lot of blurs. He knew there was someone close by, but could not pinpoint who. Then it happened; there it was again…likely the only way he could actually 'hear' being spoken to.

'Do not leave us now, Maca…you got over one hurdle, the biggest one yet, but there is still more to overcome; they may be the easiest. Do not leave yet.'

But it was over, he did it, finally. But if they say it was not over…he will remain for a while yet. Yes, he would be going home soon. That was certain. Maglor closed his eyes again and drifted from the waking world. Círdan then began his silent vigil.

* * *

 _A/N The drama continues..._


	5. We Cannot Keep Going On Like This

_A/N Explanations at the very bottom, since you deserve the content you have followed/favorited to read for the past months. Heavy angst._

* * *

The days passed very slowly for both healer and lord. A week, two weeks, then a month and a half. Elrond had not arrived, nor was there any message sent in return. Perhaps that was because he no longer cared, or simply did not have the time. The bird the message was attached to could have also encountered ill on the journey. Despite this, Círdan knew that Elrond would come to the Havens when it was time, and that time was soon approaching.

As for Maglor, he improved very little physically. There was just too much damage done to the hroä that could not be healed on this side of the sea. Mentally, or behavior in general, it was better, but the healer, Amrúnel, suspected that may be because there was no conscious ability or willful actions. Simply put, the Noldo may have reached the point of the fëa becoming catatonic: everything that ever happened and the aftermath established, the intentions of the heart cannot be changed, and nothing more can be added to the record of its life. Following this, when the body truly failed, would then pass to Mandos for the record imprinted to be reviewed.

Círdan was not willing to believe this to be the case, for normally it would not take long before the elf died if their spirit ceased to live first. Maglor still clung to life, if by a very thin spider thread. Having the ability to consciously know what is going on or not, he did not think Maglor was catatonic yet on the spiritual level.

Even without these factors, Maglor was still dying, agonizingly slow, and just watching it proceed, as well as taking care of the elf, was stressing and distressing to both healer and lord.

* * *

Círdan was anticipating. Anticipating because of the close date when the ship that will carry the ringbearers was close. Círdan also was close to being disappointed with Elrond for not responding to his message, but decided not to be and ignored that all together. The peredhel has many reasons not to answer. The teler woke from another night of restlessness and from habit and routine headed to Maglor's chambers.

Quietly he opened the door, more for the sake of Amrúnel than for Maglor. What the Noldo could perceive and understand was very questionable. The elf-lord took the sad sight in as he entered slowly.

In all truth, Maglor looked more like a wight at this point, so close to death he was. The clothes he wore should not be considered clothes either, it mostly consisted of extremely soft coverings that could be easily warmed. The elf's skin shone faintly. If one looked close enough in dim light it almost looked as if another replica of him encased the husk, only the specter was healthy and whole. At the breast where the heart resided sat a small ball of light. The fëa was slowly emerging from its housing.

Círdan's shoulders slumped in defeat at this. The last time he saw Maglor he was not like this. Maybe the Fëanorion was indeed catatonic…

Amrúnel was dabbing a damp cloth along the dying elf's lips. When she noticed her lord enter, some of her emotion slipped through, "Hír nín, we are just tormenting him further with this. Can we not let…" She placed a hand to her mouth and bowed her head.

Círdan was silent, his brows drawn slightly upward as he sat down. He willed himself to see anything that was positive: a twitch, a flutter of the eyelids, or a sound…anything. To his sad relief, the second action indeed was present, if faintly. Amrúnel's words he mulled over deeply. Was this a favor they were doing, or were they truly causing more pain by keeping Maglor locked in this husk? Or was Maglor causing himself this turmoil, by not letting go…?

They all needed to let go.

Círdan did not avert his gaze from the Fëanorion, reaching a hand to lift a thin wrist and hold it, absently letting his thumb trail against Maglor's palm, 'One more day…One more day; hold for that much longer, Maca…' The teler sighed heavily, reprimanding himself for thinking about himself more than Maglor. Just let him go.

Maglor did not seem to hear, still listless and rather gone. Ai, if Maglor did go catatonic then his desire to remain had been established. The thought nearly broke Círdan's heart. All that progress, just to become one of the Houseless, doomed to be but a shade in Middle-Earth forever?

Cirdan made a fist, trying very, _very_ hard to not blame this on Maglor again. The elf closed his eyes, hunched over in his seat. Then he began to plead to none but the Higher, 'I know not what to do anymore. Eru, help me, I beg of thee…'

So, absorbed he was in his own musings that he about slid out of his seat at the sound of the door opening. An elf who had run quite some ways was leaning against the post, "Hír nín, the lord Elrond has-"

'I am going to bloody kill him.' Círdan said nothing and just left hastily, leaving a bewildered messenger and an overtaxed Amrúnel in the room, never even knowing that Elrond may or may not have come. But the teler did not care. Círdan knew he was not presentable, but that was the least of his concerns right now. Without even realizing it he was outside and walking up the path.

Trees stood on either side of the dirt road that was before entering the havens, which would then turn into well worked stone at the actual settlement. The elf heard hooves in the distance and about fell over, despite that he could be completely wrong. Yes, he was _certainly_ going to kill someone…

* * *

To Círdan's luck, it was Elrond and the twins. Were they going with their father…?

The Imladris elves halted and stared in astonishment of the haggard lord of the Havens. The twins had only ever seen Círdan upright and steadfast, straightforward, traits that have made the younger elves admire their elders. Elrond, he has seen Círdan look thus before, but never like this.

"Mellon…" The former lord of Imladris dismounted and approached carefully, "What-"

"Do you have _any_ idea what has been going on these last months?" Círdan kept his tone restrained, though the underlying frustration and grief, anger, was palatable. The teler did not bother to let Elrond respond, "Fools are the Noldor! They wait too long or do not think of the better! 'Woe to us all,' yet they brought it on themselves…!" With a huff Círdan at last sighed after trailing off, tired and pushed to his limit. Elrond was just standing wordlessly, and the teler somehow could sense the peredhel's heart was pounding in anticipation. The silver haired composed himself and asked quietly, "Did the messenger bird ever come?"

Elrond mutely nodded.

"Why was there no answer?"

The half-elf bit his lower lip, brows drawn together. With a submissive exhale, Elrond replied in a low voice as well, "I could not come at the time…Assigning new rulers," he turned to his sons, "plans for the future of the realm. It escaped me." Looking back to the tired teler, "I am sorry I could not…"

Círdan shook his head, "I am drained, Eärendilion…I cannot go on for much longer regarding _him_."

Sadness reflecting in the grey eyes as Elrond turned, seeming to approach and mount again, but did not, "Allow me to ease some of that…Atar should be my burden anyhow." The half-elf walked passed the lord of the havens, leaving Círdan and the twins in an awkward situation.

Elladan and Elrohir were not quite sure what to think or how to react. Their friend had come up the path a complete mess, their father had reacted in a very unusual way, and he spoke of his father? They assumed it was the legendary minstrel, however they could not fully understand what was happening, but the aura of sadness gave them a clue.

Círdan regarded the twins and they to him, at a loss for words for both parties. The silver-head broke the silence, "A last fare well?" He asked in an uncharacteristic way of speaking.

The twins just nodded mutely like their sire, still unsure and disturbed.

Círdan gave a lopsided smile that held no joy, "Come, then, the road you must have meandered on has been long…"

"There are others following." Said one.

"A fair number of our people are coming…the periannath and Mithrandir close behind." Said the other.

 _Mithrandir_. Círdan restrained a groan but internally screamed. Why did he not think of the Maia first and sooner? Outwardly Círdan looked blandly at the twins.

Said twins looked at each other with interesting expressions on their faces before turning their attention back to the haven lord. Elladan cleared his throat, "Should…we finish this trek and become up to date?"

Círdan said nothing, the only sign of agreement was turning to head back down the road he originally came from and where Elrond just recently departed to. The twins wordlessly followed at a collected walk, mulling over the current circumstances.

* * *

Ai, he was so close…it was becoming quite frustrating that it was taking this long for him to finally get the rest he so much deserved and longed for. Why had he not completely surrendered yet? What in Arda was keeping him here still?

It must be due to the complete terror of going to sleep and never wake and behold anything again.

Maglor vaguely knew he was asleep for most the time, vaguely aware of being moved when he was to be bathed and other private matters, the comforting warmth of the soft coverings, the blankets…and the general comforts the people alive had given. Maglor also knew he could do almost nothing at this point, even when he _thought_ someone was speaking to him. The Noldo was too weary to conjure up a response in that scenario.

This was very unfair…

Voices and movement again were registered through the fog as well as the cloth against his lips, which soon entered his mouth. Whether the last part was intentional or not, Maglor did not question about it and bit his teeth weakly into it and sucked at the soaked contents. His senses were nigh gone at this point, but he could discern that this was not water.

'Odd…' the Noldo mused absently and dully. In some very distant memory, he was sure he had this before. Struggling to muster the strength he swallowed. A few moments later warmth spread through his aching body, even strength. The sounds became a bit more prominent, though Maglor was moaning loudly in complete pleasure and relief to pay attention to it.

"Wh…why did we not think of this before?" A female voice came through in a hazy fashion, "Is this truly a good idea?"

"There is nothing else that he can accept. Míruvor is the last resort…"

The voice was…well, 'kind as summer'. There was something oddly familiar about it. Where and how, there was trouble isolating those aspects. It probably did not matter much either. His hand was lifted: the ruined one. Knowing that much encouraged Maglor to squirm away, which he feebly pulled back the arm away from whoever was holding it.

Slight gasps sounded though the person acquiesced to the feeble fight, setting the arm across Maglor's abdomen. The fading elf was gracious for that.

"Atar?"

Maglor blinked, even with eyes closed. This was becoming too much to be ignorant of it now. The kind as summer voice asked again; the Noldo struggled to open eyes that have been closed for a long time. Everything was so bloody out of focus he was willing to give up with looking as well. Yet, whatever this fighting force was, it refused to let him quit so easily. The outer edges were fuzzy; everything else was very dim. A face came into view: anticipatory and sad.

Maglor again blinked sluggishly. He lacked strength to show any response or emotion on the outside, though, thus he just lay there dully and distantly as the stimulation faded.

A small squeeze brought him back, "Atar…know me, remember me. It is Elerondo…"

The name. No, surely it cannot be. Ai, just another moment for such a wise leader of the remnant Noldor to see the foolishness and humility of their elders. Besides, everyone was gone…right? Maglor simply lacked the mental capacity and physical strength still to do much, yet in spite of this, in very small faith…he pressed his hand against the other's.

* * *

Círdan and the duo were silent as they made their way back. A stablehand was already present to take the horses away, graciously keeping their peace as apparent tension and apprehension radiated off them. The former teler glanced at the twins, getting the sense that they would follow to see what was happening regardless of any order. Especially if it caused their sire such distress…

"You both have seen the same before." Said Círdan.

The lack of context made the twins confused. It was a befuddlement on a high level for them this day it seems.

Seeing this, Círdan sighed quietly, but made no move to enlighten them. Instead, he entered the building and traversed the halls, the faint echoes of two pairs of feet behind.

Knowing Elrond, Cirdan knew the half-elf would immediately go to the wounded and hurt, especially if they were a loved one. Even if it has been millennia since their last words…Regardless, Elrond would become a leech, in the sense of latching on and never leaving until satisfied with his assessment.

There were no obvious sounds beyond the dreaded door, and Cirdan's heart could only begin to pump harder in greater anticipation. The twins respectfully kept their distance as the ancient elf fought his battle of either leaving or entering. The latter was accomplished a few minutes later.

Despite the best care given, the wood creaked as it was swung open slightly, yet neither occupant seemed to notice. Elrond was seated at the head of the bed hunched over, one hand gently though firmly grasped in Maglor's uninjured hand, while the other shielded his eyes. As for the dying elf, to Círdan's surprise, seemed a bit more relaxed, not as tense as before. And he was sure the Noldo moved on his own volition, if barely.

"He does not recognize me…" Elrond said softly, now just acknowledging the other presence in the room.

Círdan took a few long stride steps closer.

The peredhel straightened up, the hold not breaking, though the other that shielded his face rested in his lap. The eyes were red slightly, evidence to tears, "I gave what little strength I can spare, and míruvor…I will concede that it startled me that it worked, if minutely."

"Whatever that can make this easier on him…" Círdan answered in a same low tone. Both elves just then noticed the other two that slinked in after.

The twins were very much composed, though the surprise, grief, and awe in their eyes was visible. They even kept their mouths closed instead of gaping.

The older could not help but smile sadly at their fascination. They knew the twins understood who it was. Even if Maglor was known for heinous deeds, his better aspects were still recognized: his skill in music, and for being a legendary figure of the first age and prior.

"Adar…" the younger twin, Elrohir, began, "…our adopted grandfather, yes?"

Elrond gave a faint nod, "Not the way you imagined meeting…"

"Not really a meeting," Elladan remarked though the comment may have been rude, "…if it is one sided."

"One day, maybe, something proper could be established."

Cirdan took a seat near the fire after encouraging life into the embers once more. Sagging, and slightly defeated, "Where is Amrúnel…his guardian, when I left to seek you?"

"Warm water." Elrond answered in simplicity, "…it may not do much, but a proper bath may help atar relax."

"We will bring a basin in."

Elrond opened his mouth to object at Elladan's suggestion, though that twin was already gone in his haste. The father could not grasp what was going on in his son's mind.

As for Elrohir, slightly naïve and meek as he was, remained standing, "Do you want me to stop him?"

Elrond did not answer immediately, "It…probably will not kill him." Him they knew who was referred to.

"I will follow after." The younger replied before he left the room also after his brother, thoughts whirling through his mind.

Círdan had accepted the answer that Amrúnel had gone to retrieve the water. It gave her a break from this. The teler remained oblivious to the words and actions that happened afterwards. He did register Elrond speaking quiet words to Maglor, trying to get him to some semblance of consciousness. Greatly weary of the whole affair, Círdan was close to saying to not try anymore. Words from the beach, when this all started, floated to his mind.

 _Too far gone…_

Maybe it was pointless, yet the elf held to his conviction that there was still some hope. It may have bene thrown right back at his face, but it was the right thing to do. Even just providing housing to the end was a good enough act of mercy…

"I am sorry for not telling you earlier…"

Elrond looked up from his current line of attention.

Círdan closed his eyes, "They never learn. Even during the elder days, they were a troublesome lot. It is a shame that Maglor decided to hold onto that." He sighed, "But there had, has, to be some form of grace and forgiveness _waiting_ to show up…" The elf shifted a now knotting shoulder muscle, "Where would we end up with just chaos to fix chaos? I do not know music, but I know it is not harmonious with the original Song…"

"Small notes go unnoticed in the turbulence." Elrond answered, "…even if this is the eternal end for M…atar," he could not bear to speak Maglor's name for some reason, "then the last moments were in the best attempts of peace and comfort."

Stillness filled the room; Círdan broke it again, "This was not something you were expecting to happen, when you left for your final journey."

A gentle sigh, "There is already much heartache with leaving, so more on the road will make little difference to the burden." Before Círdan could say anything, and with a sharp eye, Elrond continued, "Friend and lord…I ask you seek some rest now that this burden is lightened off your shoulders. You need it desperately."

Círdan looked a bit indignant yet he would not get angry openly, "But you, elfling, have been travelling for weeks, without having any chance to bathe…"

"I may be an old man also," Elrond quipped with a small smirk, "but you have been working nonstop for months…with something of heavier emotion with no end or chance to recover."

Elrond should have been afraid to see Círdan's ears turn red, maybe even his beard at the roots, though the ancient being could not hide his weariness anymore, and let the façade drop, "Gotten bold now, have you? Reckless children and obnoxious people must have done it…"

Elrond gave a full smile, yet his own weariness of the world was not shielded either, "Learn from the best."

Without saying anything else, Círdan left. Entering his private chambers, he quickly washed and flopped onto the bed. With true quiet and being alone, much caught up with him at last. He rubbed his face with one hand, the emotional and physical strain catching up. Within moments he fell into a dreamless respite.

* * *

He was not fully aware of the long one-sided conversation the other had. He did not completely register the great sadness in the voice, and the tears that splattered across his hand. The gut-wrenching emotions were so hard to discern…ai, he felt trapped, and he was afraid of it greatly, and most certainly in despair at the longevity it was taking to just…fade. What was keeping him back? What else was there to do before he could go into eternal rest: truly eternal or a temporary sleep? At random moments, there would be great heart-felt cries for the latter to be true. Once he believed in it and felt assured, he was at peace again, only the wait made things distressing again and thus his hold on it would slip momentarily.

It was an impressive thing, the heart, the soul…clinging to the only lifeline of redemption it had, while the rest: there was nothing.

To Maglor he could not think. The thoughts he had were much more scrambled as he tried to draw breath, thus the air needed for such complex thoughts. And movement. But none of these pleasures were his. There was only the wait…and waiting…

There were sounds of water pouring into something metallic, for some reason water sounded much more prominently than anything else. Then there were gentle taps along his hollowed cheek, and a close voice right near his face, begging for wakefulness. Still it was unfair, yet unbidden strength led his horribly glassy eyes to open. More words, then unbidden he was lifted. This was a great startle and a cause for wonder. Maglor momentarily felt he was flying…

Then there was a lot of wet.

The water was very, very warm, nigh unto hot. Oh, sweet blessed water on his tortured and atrophied muscles…thank the One for this simple pleasure. Maglor mewed his relief and joy in that simple sound, unaware of the sad and tearful smiles that came from others. There were hands, many pairs of them. One supporting his body and head, one gently rubbing the steaming water against his withered skin, while another worked out some built up knots.

Again, his hand was held, and from the constant stimulation he could respond a bit more acutely to things. Eyes were focused on the wrist, then trailed up the arm…then to the face. Elven though with some semblance of man in the face, very watchful silver eyes, and for the hand itself: hands of a healer.

His adopted son.

Maglor's heart flared with overwhelming joy. He was not completely abandoned and forgotten by the people seen. If there was strength and water in his body he would have cried unabashedly. Oh, All-father…forever he would be grateful for this gift and privilege.

"Atar?" the half-elf asked with hard-wrought anticipation and grief.

…

…

…

…

…

"…E…ell…roond."

It was literally gone: papery, cracked, and rasped. Not all the syllables got through, yet the mouthing of the name was enough. High stars his focus was leaving again…

'Beloved son…help…'

The one word, the one name, Elrond's name, made the bearer of the name near to breaking down. Many tears flowed down his face and his voice trembled, "Ai, atar, it is your son, and grandsons aside…you are surrounded by people who love you. All will be well…"

Maglor was lost to the world again and succumbed to the ministrations being applied to his body. Elrond soon had to be pulled away to avoid becoming hysterical and word was sent for other attendees to help. The twins were in somber and quiet silence again, though they mourned and let tears drip down their faces also.

* * *

 _A/N First of all: m_ _ay life treat all of you readers well, and may the Lord help you with anything you are struggling with._

 _Turbulence in my own life these past months...mostly just emotional stuff. After being around to see a loved and dearly held family member dying for the first time in my life, I suppose that may have influenced this chapter in some way-as I want to try and apply realism into my work. Not to shy away from harsh realities, as we are wont to do, or make simple on some deep topics. Not berating, but...it is just stuff to think about._

 _We are getting close to the end of this, from what I have planned for the chapters. I will say sorry in advance if it takes another quarter year to update, as well as apologies for my other story (again) not being updated. Speaking of, it seems I'm able to do oneshots pretty easily..._

 _Thank you guest reviewers for...reviewing :) I hope I won't put anyone off with this chapter though..._

 _I've essentially given Maglor late stage dementia...and Miruvor as morphine._


	6. Galadriel and Dispute

_A/N There may be a bit of out of characterness in this, but one: it adds to drama. And two: anyone with a lot of stress would not behave as they normally would anyway. Bear with me, please. Besides...this probably is an AU of sorts. :P_

 _It is very heart-warming to see this story is successful, despite the fact it's such a sad story, and I'm thankful to those who have favorited/followed since the last update. I feel very grateful, and I want to say humble, seeing those alerts come up on my e-mail. I hope to hear words from you. :)_

 _...Enjoy._

* * *

Círdan and Elrond were sitting on a porch overlooking the docks, away from the pain and sorrow that always came from being anywhere near Maglor's room. The twins were the ones to take care of things regarding the Noldo, as well as healers and assistants when it became too much. Even though Elladan and Elrohir never had a personal connection to Maglor, the events transpiring was enough to make any being crumble.

Death was never meant to be, and Círdan wondered if the world was much different than it was now, perhaps men would not have to suffer eternal sleep either.

Wishful thinking, as it happens quite often when affairs are difficult to endure. One wishes it would turn out different, _should_ be different…A miracle.

'I pray for a miracle constantly…' The old elf mused, 'It most certainly can happen: I believe it. But it maybe is not meant to be…'

Círdan glanced to the late king's herald. Elrond was slouched back into his seat, already looking tired. The teler felt pity for the peredhel: for the struggles that were at his youth, abandonment by his true parents and the fear of people leaving forever, leaving everything he has ever known…

It was quite impressive Elrond has managed to live under those burdens for so long. It must have something to do with wielding Vilya, the ring helped in many ways. And made things difficult at the same time.

"Galadriel will soon arrive." Elrond spoke at last, filling the air aside from the sounds of the twins' duet below.

Círdan's attention snapped to its fullness at the mention of Galadriel. He berated himself for forgetting the other occupants of the ship to Valinor. First it was Gandalf (there was no excuse for that…), now Galadriel. Círdan knew, or assumed, where this was going, though to be safe… "Yes, as is everyone else, by now…" The ship was to leave in a few days…

Elrond looked to the bay as he gave pause before continuing, "She will not like seeing, or even hearing that Atar is here."

Galadriel was certainly a strong, highly opinionated elleth of her time, and even now. A trait found in Finwë's line quite noticeably, is the passion that is in their spirits. Though Galadriel had not interacted with her cousins, let alone seen them, at the end of the First Age, the elder sons of Fëanor and their actions she still held a grudge for. Especially the sacking of Sirion, for Elrond's sake at least (so she claimed), though he himself had let the matter to rest.

Cirdan gave a weary sigh, not wanting to have anything to do with settling disputes or arguments when the lady arrived, "She must learn to cope, if she wants to return home…It matters not if they will ever speak to each other again when they get there. The now is what I am concerned about."

"Perhaps this is one final test."

Círdan wanted to laugh so badly, but could not, "How many left are there, for all of you? You would think at the end of the road there would be fewer trials, not more."

Elrond could only shake his head, "The last mountain before the plain…The last precipice to climb, oft times the most difficult." The peredhel's eyes shone with some hope as he spoke in a quiet voice, "It only makes the reward more appealing, since we earned it…"

The twins' s duet ended and the elders stood to look to what has gained their attention to stop mid-song. They saw the party of Galadhrim elves walk to the haven: some riding, most walking. Celeborn and Galadriel were at the middle of the group.

Upon seeing the lady of Lothlórien, Círdan felt like dying on the floor, and Elrond had his hackles up, ready to defend should his step-mother discover their secret guest.

There were only a few flaws to this plan of action: the two elf-lords were not in their best state of mind, were tired, and the fact Maglor's presence was known throughout most of the place by now would not help keep him secret.

Elladan and Elrohir were greeting their grandparents. Only seeing this is when Elrond and Círdan finally moved to action. Well, the latter was going down to greet them…Elrond was going to, for lack of better words, hide.

* * *

The lord and lady of Lothlórien were dismounted and embracing their grandsons, and speaking idly with one another by the time Círdan got down to meet them. The rest of the party had either gone to wander the grounds, to rest, or to prepare for their own departure.

Formalities were shared between the two telerin lords (as the sindar were originally part of that clan…). Círdan refrained from asking why Celeborn was there. He felt it was menial enough to be irritating at this moment, so he did not do it.

"You look very disheveled, my lord." Galadriel commented then.

Círdan glanced at the daughter of Finarfin. No, he still did not care what he looked like (though he _would_ care when the ship leaves), "It has been a bit of a rough time for me, lady, over these past months."

"Has the work load been too much?" Celeborn asked in turn, now noticing the bearded ellon's appearance also.

"No, _that_ work is not difficult to manage." 'Careful words…'

The twins had gone. Flighty pair they are, they must know of the tension coming from Círdan and his word play with the two powerful figures. Figures that have had very bad dealings with the Fëanorions.

Menial conversation was then exchanged: the state of Lothlórien, thoughts of the future, plans for it, all those things…What disturbed Círdan and put him on alert was when Galadriel asked to speak to him alone. Blast her on detecting auras and _knowing_ everything, when it was not necessary in some scenarios. This, was one of those times.

"I have not seen Elrond since he and his sons gone ahead of us…I would have thought him to be here waiting with Elladan and Elrohir." Galadriel lifted a brow, "And you, Círdan, are hiding something. I can see it in your eyes and your posture."

'Why.' Círdan thought his next words carefully, "…Elrond is…tired," That was true, "And anxious about many things: including what will happen to what he has left behind."

"And so he seeks solitude…" Galadriel mused aloud, "But he cannot be left alone for too long, else the burden will increase as he isolates himself. You know how he is."

Except he was not alone…dealing with someone else entirely. Círdan internally was upset with himself for being unable to escape this trap. What tricks did he miss out on learning in Valinor by choosing to stay? "I do not believe trying to get him to speak of his worries now would bring forth much fruit. Aside from that, they will likely vanish upon seeing the Blessed Land…and your daughter."

"Celebrían…" Galadriel turned her gaze to the sea, her demeanor softening greatly in sadness, gladness, and a bit of fear, "And everyone else left behind. I wonder how much has changed since then."

Círdan felt a bit of triumph diverting the topic away from Elrond and his troubles. The teler did not berate Galadriel for her concern, nor her love…but he felt justified in hiding Maglor, just to avoid a nasty conflict he was sure would occur, for everyone's sake.

Of course, he is ignoring that Maglor will have to be on the ship at the same time with her, and is being completely contrary to his earlier words of Galadriel needing to cope with his being there.

How else will that begin if she does not know sooner than later?

"The stains of the past may have been removed completely by now, lady…" He said in a gentle manner, pushing his recent thoughts to the back of his mind, "It will be a new land to see: for the young and old."

A few quiet words were further exchanged, Galadriel seemingly forgot about her concern to Elrond. Begging for rest, she left to seek out her husband. Círdan, as much as etiquette allowed wide out in the open, hurried back to where he knew the peredhel could be found.

* * *

As Círdan approached the door, Elrond opened it before the bearded elf was even five feet from it. The half-elf's shoulders slumped in relief, and the sigh that followed only affirmed the wariness he had.

"Get back in." Círdan said in a hushed voice. As if they were elflings up to no good, they hurried to hide back into the confines of _the_ room. Maglor, as was likely to be expected, was listless, and it would not surprise them too much if he had become a vegetable now.

"Does she know?" Elrond asked.

"Nay, but she suspects something."

Elrond huffed, "Cruel as it may be, I wish her ability to read people so easily would have disappeared by now, since that gift is needed no longer."

Círdan rubbed his face, "I agree with you on this…And I have approached this in caution instead of her knowing fully, when we spoke. For her to rage elsewhere would be better, than to come upon us and…" He did not need to finish.

Elrond's eyes hardened as he thought deeply. He bowed his head, "I will speak to her…and I have not been a good father by withholding my sons these last few moments together, for perhaps…forever."

Círdan nodded slowly, "Then take those moments, Elrond. I do not think anything bad will happen in here…" 'Given the fact that Maglor has managed to stay alive for this long…'

With that dismissal, Elrond left, and it was Círdan's turn to sit by the bed again. Seeing Maglor again made his heart clench and stomach turn over.

If there was anything left resembling the minstrel would have to be the apparition encasing the body at this point. Of course, they had placed a veil over the elf's face so it would not be too disturbing to look at, and a lot of blankets around his body, but it still hurt to see how low Maglor had fallen.

And others that would follow that path, if they stay in Middle-Earth.

This was no longer a mercy, Círdan thought. They should just deprive the elf the care so he could finally go to his rest. But he did not want them to involuntarily send the elf to everlasting darkness…

It is such a difficult balance. It hurt greatly to have to keep this going, but there was just too much fear to finally let the elf's soul meet its final judgement, be it for good or for worse.

"I wonder how much you are aware of what is happening…" Círdan said to the dying elf, "I hope not much, by now, it would only hurt all of us to know that you still experience suffering uncomprehensive, and we can do nothing to alleviate it."

Círdan had not once wept openly since Maglor's arrival. He may have shod a few tears, but never crying fully. He had reached his limit, truly, and he bent over, hands on his face, and wept: grieving for the illness in the world Morgoth had wrought by disturbing the Song with his own foul concepts.

* * *

When Círdan was next aware, it was because he was rudely awakened by the slamming of the door hitting the wall. He barely had a chance to check how long he had been sleeping (which is now the next day), when he was looking at a red-faced Galadriel. Elrond was behind her, looking angry also, and when he tried to pull her back, she shrugged him off.

"Why." Galadriel asked, or stated, in a cool voice to the telerin lord.

Círdan had hoped to do this when he was coherent and awake. Still, despite the rude wakening, he recovered himself quickly, "What?" He asked neutrally, knowing well it would fuel the elleth's anger.

"Why would you bring _him_ into your care?" Galadriel pointed at the figure in the bed, though Círdan noticed that she never actually looked at Maglor and his state of being.

"Why would I not, Galadriel? You know very well the ways of my folk regarding the dying and grieved."

Galadriel huffed, "Do not think me ignorant or dumb in the matter, Círdan. I know your ways with our folk in their suffering. But have you forgotten what Maglor did to us, in Sirion?"

"I have not forgotten…" Círdan now said in a warning tone, "…but how does that affect us now, since the whole _land_ is now under the sea?" He too motioned to Maglor, "And mind you, he has not been a part of any matter of Middle-Earth since the War of Wrath."

"No, he has not, being the coward and not trying to amend his crimes by facing punishment he deserves. I see now it is finally happening."

Círdan felt his heart stop at these words. How deep was the hatred between the house of Fëanor and those of his half-brothers'? He thought Galadriel would be far more compassionate and merciful. Apparently, he was wrong…

It was bait. This was not his feud nor Elrond's. It was hers alone, and he would not give into her attempt of trying to lure them to her side.

Círdan narrowed his eyes, and stood up. Though it was Elrond who spoke before the teler could, as he shoved his mother-in-law aside so he could stand before her, "What does that make you then, Artanis?" He spoke her Quenyan name heatedly, "You denied forgiveness when they offered the same to everyone else of our kind, yet you refused it."

"But I swore no oath!"

"How does that make you better than my father; yes, he is the father Eärendil never was to me, so do not speak against me about that ever again." Elrond hissed, "Do you not think atar has desired to be free from his crimes and to return home, as you have also yearned to return to your birthland?"

"But I-"

"Silence!" Círdan watched, slightly stunned at the drama before him. Elrond continued, "Have you not even looked at him, Galadriel? I daresay he is paying far more for his salvation than you did. So why scorn him for trying to find that mercy, niece to Fëanor?" Galadriel did look, for a moment, though her relation to the spirit of fire being mentioned made her ire grow, "Why is it that, now that you are allowed to go home, now no one else who has done wrong like what the Fëanorions did is not allowed also that same mercy, if they _accept_ that gift?"

Galadriel stammered hard to get an advantage over this argument, however Elrond always interrupted. She did finally get to say, "I never slew my own, I never sought out revenge against an enemy over a bunch of jewels."

Círdan felt this had gone long enough, and shouting in this small room _with_ someone who needed _peace_ he would not tolerate. He was sure he felt distress from Maglor, aura wise. With a few short strides, ignoring _all_ rules of politeness and formality, shoved both the peredhel and daughter of Finarfin out of the room, very roughly.

Elrond did not look too disturbed by this, though Galadriel did not look anything like a noble woman at all with her expression.

"Why? Why can you not see-"

"I can see very clearly, little one." Círdan said darkly, "I see very clearly that you are not as what people make you out to be. Unmerciful." Galadriel shut up at this, "You are a girl demanding retribution for a wrong done to you, that should not have been carried out this far into your life." Círdan lifted his head up, "I could very easily cast you out of my lands and never let you take ship from my docks for this amount of disrespect to a patient and petulance I have just witnessed, _Artanis_ , but I will pardon you…just this once, however. But I think you should be warned: I believe the Valar, and Eru himself could very much revoke your ability to pass across the sea for hindering Maglor in his own journey to get home."

Galadriel paled at the thought of not being able to leave. Círdan knew Elrond was a bit afraid of the thought of being unable to leave either. With a flick of his hand, Círdan said the elleth, "Go forth from this place for the rest of the day. I do not want to see you near this hall at any point in time. I will be sure to have my staff notify me if they see you…I am _very_ disappointed with you."

Galadriel opened and closed her mouth, before she picked up her skirts and left immediately, leaving the two ellyn alone.

"Please forgive me, my lord…" Elrond began.

"Do not, elfling…just tell me how this started."

Elrond fell silent before he began the tale, "…Galadriel, Elladan, Elrohir, and I were eating together. I knew it would be best to speak of atar's presence, since you did not…yet I did not expect her to leave the table and find you. Sadly, she already asked a servant where you were by the time I reached her."

Círdan held one elbow in one hand, and rubbed his face again with the other, "I am sorry for not doing so yesterday, I will take blame for that…it could have spared so much trouble."

"We do not know…but that is not something we can change."

"I will not tolerate such behavior from her…or from anyone, for that matter. I doubt many truly let that far into the past affect them that much."

Elrond looked out a nearby window, then down the hall where his mother-in-law had recently gone down, "We are strained yet again, mournfully…" He frowned deeply, "But her pride is far too great. I doubt she shall relent; not in the near future."

Círdan huffed before turning to enter the room again, "No one's loss but her own…But, Elrond, I do not want you in here for a while, not while this is still fresh in your mind. Ease your own fire and come back, and I will be the judge if you are able to come and go as you please."

Elrond wanted to argue, though knowing better, simply bowed and took his leave. Círdan, before going back to Maglor, bade a healer to come with him also to assess the elf's state after the commotion that happened way too close than what was tolerable. There was a feeling of disturbance from the Noldo, but with a few soothing words and touches, was calm again.

Since falling asleep with no memory of doing so, Círdan sought out his own bed to rest after finding his own calm again, praying that the following days will be less hard on them, and that Galadriel would humble herself, and that Elrond and she could make amends.

He also prayed that Eru would let Maglor fade away finally if he was truly redeemed, so that misery would finally end.


	7. Going Home

The elves were singing their hymns; a more solemn and hopeful tone to it than it would be under normal gatherings. They were going home.

Círdan watched the harbor from the balcony, listening to the song, and then to the horizon where it met the sea. It was not his time yet… _yet_ , but it did not mean he did not want to leave either. But, Círdan appreciated the knowledge that his leaving is closer.

He absently stroked his beard, wondering how many other elves he would encounter would have such an oddity. Maybe having a beard was the requirement of having the most respect. And stares.

The elf smiled, genuinely amused as he pondered the facial hair. He let the moment last for a decent while, before he had to go back to the reality that was happening inside. Elrond and the twins were preparing Maglor for being moved to the ship, and placing some protection around him as his fragile bones may not handle the jarring from the waves force against the ship, should the sea become rowdy. It was not dignifying…but there really was none left at this point.

Círdan turned and went back to see them.

They were in the greys, silvers, and whites that came with this departure. A fair appearance in its simplicity, perhaps fairer than they would be even at a seasonal festival. They did not notice Círdan, focused on their work and gentle handling. No words were needed.

The old teler looked up as he heard the door open slightly.

Galadriel stood, composed as she watched the four elf-men. Elrond also took notice and looked over his shoulder. He said nothing, only staring at his mother-in-law, gauging what she will do. The twins also looked, but knew better to stay silent. It was not their place to get involved in this argument.

Galadriel met Círdan and Elrond's eyes for a moment, before looking at the withered husk of her half-cousin. She simply took the sight in, before looking at Elrond.

"If I may have…a word with you, alone." She paused, then looked at Círdan, "…I spoke rashly indeed, and I…apologize, for my words."

Círdan only gave a small nod.

Elrond pondered over this and stood, "I will go with you."

Galadriel exhaled silently, in relief perhaps. She stood aside as Elrond walked passed her, and she followed him down the hall.

Círdan watched for a moment longer before turning to the twins. They were forlorn. Their father was leaving, and given their situation of fate, possibly for the last time.

"Go," the elf-lord said softly. The twins lifted their eyes to him, "I can manage things here before all is made ready. Follow them, but at a respectable distance. Enjoy these last moments you have with your father and grandmother."

Elladan and Elrohir pondered this. Elrohir looked back to Maglor, his expression softening. Whatever he was thinking, Círdan was not sure. Well wishes, hopes, blessings…many things. The younger twin was first to leave. Elladan stayed for a moment, also looking back to the foster-father of Elrond. He did what Elrohir did, but this time verbally.

"I wish circumstances were better for us to meet. Great many songs and tales you could share, and in a voice of great renown and power that others claim you have…The books and scrolls say many things; mostly on the worst of deeds, but the words of my father outweigh what scholars say about you. I hope to see an elf of good intentions, a freed prince from the chains of your sins…" Elladan paused, squeezing the hand he held, "May restoration be given to you, and Eru free you, and bless you."

Elladan stood up from the bed, his breath slightly hitched from emotion. Círdan smiled in praise.

"It…is a new responsibility I have, to perform such rites, small as that one was…"

"With much meaning, young one. You did well."

Elladan looked at the floor, "Not to my glory." He said quietly, "I should seek out my family."

Círdan gave a nod of dismissal, and Elladan left in a small rush. The teler approached the bed and sat on the side. He grabbed the cloth and squeezed most of the excess water from it in the bowl. He carefully lifted the veil that covered Maglor's lower face. Not enough to expose the deterioration all the way, only enough to drip some water along the elf's lips and in his mouth.

"You are either stubborn and confused or stubborn and afraid…" Círdan said quietly, "But I do not blame you for the latter if that is so, or the former if it is so. Would that you could still understand our words…perhaps you still do, in some way or another."

"He is afraid," a gruff voice said from behind, "But he should not be soon."

Círdan managed to not be overly jerky in his startle as he swiftly turned his head to the owner of the voice. He felt like melting again as he stood up, "Olórin…Mithrandir," He said shakily, "You finally came."

Mithrandir gave a smile as he leant on his staff, and held an arm out. Círdan took it and hugged the Maia desperately, now in the presence of someone higher he was very close to losing all his wit.

"So, I have heard about your honored guest recently." Mithrandir looked to the wrapped-up figure in the bed, "Very close now…"

"Close to what?" Círdan mourned as he stepped away and stood before the empty hearth, "We fight a battle without knowing what we are fighting. We on the outside can only do so much…have we done enough? Has he done what he had to do before he lost himself to the darkness?" Círdan composed himself, "…is he no longer condemned?"

Mithrandir hummed as he went to the bedside, staring at the fading elf carefully, "He walks a fine line."

"Does that mean-"

"Yes, still here, but barely." Mithrandir placed a hand on Maglor's forehead. He shook his head after a moment, "Foolish children…you are one step away, but you do not surrender completely…"

Círdan was mildly confused.

Maglor's hand moved on his own volition.

Mithrandir smiled again, a slightly sad smile, though Maglor would not see it, "There now, should have enough clarity in the near future to decide where you stand on things."

"He does not want to be condemned, he does not want to be bound to the oath." Círdan said.

Mithrandir stood up straight again, turning to the older elf, "My friend…I know that. Maedhros also did not want to be oath-bound. He wanted to be free, but did not know where to look. In the end, to him, the only way out was to face the condemnation he brought upon himself."

Círdan did not like some of the implications those words brought…

"So many do not know they have a way out…or some do know, but are unwilling to bring themselves low," He lifted a hand, "No, not like our dear Maglor here, who has been brought lower than anyone ever should be. Humbleness, Círdan, is what I speak of. Admittance of fault."

The teler looked at Maglor, who occasionally moved a limb, only elven perception could pick up on it, "He knows where to go…"

"He knows, but doubts, which is his enemy right now, but…it seems he is winning that fight." Mithrandir sighed and closed the distance, "Círdan, you did what you could, by showing him the light when he first came here. You cannot do much else now."

Círdan bowed his head.

"Let the work be completed, for good or for worse. If it does come to worse, then be thankful for the blessing that was his youth and innocence while it lasted."

Círdan nodded.

Mithrandir cleared his throat, and looked out to the balcony, "Well, we better get going soon. I got some hobbits to round up, and a couple of elves that are frolicking in the forest." He walked by, "Do not lose hope, Círdan. We are reaching the end of the journey."

* * *

Círdan walked to the docks in silence, four elves surrounding him as he carried his burden to the ship. The others were there to block Maglor from view as much as possible. Círdan would not tolerate stares while in the open. He could not prevent stares on the ship, but he trusted Mithrandir and Elrond to do it for him.

Maglor remained listless and still, only occasionally moving a finger or the entire hand. Círdan walked up the ramp. On the deck, there was a decently sized mattress set up, blankets and pillows. Elrond happened to be sitting on it, but he stood up so Círdan could lower his burden onto it. Maglor only tensed faintly and relaxed at the dramatic change of hard and soft. This has been the busiest day he had in a long time.

Elrond looked at Círdan, "…thank you, for all you have done: for me and my family."

The two elves embraced each other briefly, and Círdan smiled, "Give my greetings to Celebrían when you arrive."

Elrond returned it, "And to Gil-Galad?"

"If he happens to be alive, then yes, most certainly."

"Then I ought to give some warning while I am at it."

"But of course." Círdan stepped away, looking to where Galadriel stood at the bow. He approached her.

"It is strange, to be going home after such a long time…and on a boat no less, not walking across an ice-field where whales and seals could devour us if they chose to."

"And not seeing a massive bonfire across the sea."

"Yes, that as well." Galadriel bowed her head, and looked to the older elf, "…Forgive me of my behavior, lord."

Círdan nodded, "Forgiven."

Galadriel sighed and she relaxed.

Círdan bowed to her before standing up straight, "May you find your peace, Artanis."

"And you, Círdan, when you finally join us in our eternal home."

Círdan looked to where Elrond and Maglor were. Círdan shook himself slightly, whispering a thought, 'May you be given your rest, Macalaurë. And you, Elrond, the security you long for.'

The older teler descended the ramp. He saw Mithrandir and the hobbits approach.

"All is made ready." He said to them.

* * *

This, day, or night, was _busy_. He could not use exciting, because that was not what he was feeling. He was not sure what had happened to bring him out of this…coma, or daze, then again, he could not care either. He lost that ability a while ago. He did not care about what happened around him, or to him.

Save that if he was going to wake up again when he finally…left. He was not sure if he wanted to leave. Or if he could. He was still stuck.

He felt like he was flying…for a _long_ time, before flopping onto a cloud again. There were noises, nice noises he thought. He was cold, but he was mostly numb. He thought he could smell salty water, but had not that sense failed already?

He was being lifted a little, against a person. A warm person…a powerful person.

But it was not Elrond.

'Do not fear, child…this will be over soon.' A somewhat familiar voice spoke to his thoughts, to ease the panic.

He thought he knew this person, once, long ago…but he could not remember. So much was blank.

There were other voices.

"Oh dear," said an elderly voice, but it was still light and sweet, "Now this is also another surprise I did not expect to see."

"No, not many expected my father to be here."

"Your _father_ , master Elrond? Oh! What an honor!"

He was not sure why he felt warmed by those words.

"Why does he look ill? Or…like the ghost stories that were told?" A younger voice asked, nervous sounding.

"That, dear Frodo," the one that was apparently was holding him up answered, "is because he has long wandered this world in isolation." The voice was directed at him next, "But you have finally come to realization and are going to heal, yes?"

He felt obligated to answer. All he could manage was to curl his hand up. Said hand was picked up, and the elder light voice spoke again.

"Well, you look to be quite in a muddy situation if I say so myself. I have seen a dragon, goodness, it was big! But you must have seen _bigger_ ones, for sure. Maybe we can share some of our adventures over some nice tea, or maybe over something that can only be made in Valinor. From what I read, you are a good musician. Lindir would love to work with you. What a trio we would make!" The person stopped speaking, "Oh, well, getting ahead of myself. You will be just fine, mister Maglor."

He thought he would be weeping in gratefulness if he could.

"Thank you, master Bilbo." Elrond said in a voice with emotion. Elrond did it for him.

"Oh, it is no issue, master Elrond!" The one called Bilbo said, "Your father here needs all the light in the world I think. I might be wrong, but…well, kindness to even the least deserving is one of the most powerful things in the world."

"What did he do?" The one called Frodo asked.

For a moment, he thought those names were…odd. How long had he been disconnected from society?

"My dear Frodo, you can read about all that in a private space. I do not think mister Maglor here would appreciate us telling his life story out on this deck." Bilbo stopped, "Gandalf, could you…maybe, see what…oh, what am I doing?"

"I believe he should be left in peace for now, let him sleep."

Maglor indeed fell asleep right at the end of that sentence, feeling warm and safe.

* * *

Círdan watched as the ship sailed off into the horizon, until it finally vanished into the setting sun, never to be seen again on this side of the sea, as well as those who were aboard.

The twins would need comfort, discussions with Celeborn were due, but for now, the teler let out a sigh of release. Release of burden, comfort in knowing all would be taken care of, in the end, to whatever end would occur.

"Eru keep you all…" He murmured, before he turned towards the marble, vacant settlement.

* * *

 _A/N I find it sort of interesting that I could actually wrap up the story right here, given the calming down and...well, everyone sailing finally. Closure. But, there are two chapters left before I consider this thing done. I hope you enjoy this still, and may life treat you well._


	8. The Last Battle

Days progressed. Maglor thought there were some differences in the motion of the whatever-a ship-when the winds picked up. He was on a ship once; long ago…they had orbs with them too. He must have lost his. Where and when, he did not care, could not care. It was just a useless trinket, just like the Silmarils.

'Not so useless…'

That damnable voice was talking again. It was the voice that tried to make him doubt, _force_ him to doubt. To question the whole journey he just took, his worthiness.

'You are not worthy, you murderer and thief…'

No…he was not worthy, but this was the mercy: the gift was it not? That forgiveness itself was a gift? He felt the relief, but it kept coming back…did he do something wrong, was he doing something wrong?

"Gandalf, what is that in the distance?"

Bilbo, bless his soul. What glimpses he could see and remember, he thought he liked these halflings. Bilbo kept telling him tales…he could not recall what they were specifically, but they were stories of a sort. Maybe…when he is healed, they could speak more.

'You will never be healed.'

"That, Bilbo, is the Pillar of Heaven, the last remnant of Númenor." Said Mithrandir…Olórin, that was who he was.

"Does that mean…are we close?" The one called Frodo asked, some excitement in his voice.

"Yes indeed. Keep looking forward, Frodo, the time is at hand."

Maglor felt someone else touch his forehead and his hand…Elrond.

"We are almost there, Atar…" The half-elf whispered, "Remain with us just for a while longer."

'You will find no mercy.'

Elrond must have left…Olórin was still holding him. The Maia was the only constant presence during this indefinite time period…Maglor tried to take comfort and reassurance in that.

'He is making sure you will face your torment…'

Please, stop…He did not want to think this. He did not understand _why_ he was thinking this!

'Why should you, one of the lowest of all elves, be rewarded for your misdeeds? What have you done to try and amend it, after how many years?'

Nothing…

Maglor strained his now blackened eyes to open, as his pupils dilated so much to try and let light in to eyes that can no longer see. Dying eyes. He thought he saw many people crowded at the bow. The whole ship was shrouded in a grey mist, which did not help his eyesight.

'Maglor.' Olórin called to him softly.

The elf mentally clung to the Maia. Please, make the voice stop speaking to him.

'Look up, and see what the others are missing.'

Maglor was bewildered. Then again, when was the last time he had clarity in anything?

Olorin must have shifted him so he could see up. Midnight blue sky, with auroras and constellations unlike anything other he had seen ever in his lifetime. It was Eternity right above them, and the others…why are they not seeing? Why them, who have done less wrong than he, see grey and he…

'You violator!' The voice screamed at him, 'You abominable, disgraceful being! You have no right to behold the great Halls above! For this you will surely be destroyed; showing your face to the Majesty in the Timeless Halls!'

His grip on his salvation slipped, and his heart was failing.

No! NO! Not like this!

'Forgive me…' Maglor moaned in his thought, 'Please, please! I have wronged everyone! Please, do not let me be lost! I repent! I REPENT!'

Oh stars, oh all that is holy and good, he could not see anymore! He could not SEE! He could not hear anymore. No, no…everything truly, his body was failing. It could not sustain his life anymore. It has been stretched to its last reserves.

He cried, screamed, shrieked for forgiveness, any form of mercy for his dirty, unclean soul. He did not want to die; he did not want to die. His despair was unlike anything other.

'Maglor!' A different voice called. It was not the evil one, not Olórin…

'Forgive me!' Maglor was drowning.

'Believe, my son! Let not the evil one take thee!'

Maglor was flailing for any hold. Please, please do not abandon…he found it again, he found his hold. And the hand pulled him back out of the abyss.

Maglor melted at the being's feet and sobbed, 'Forgive me, please forgive me! I have only caused disharmony to the Song! I have strayed from it, from _you_ …'

'Be still.'

It took what seemed to be eternity before Maglor seemed to finally have a semblance of calm. He could have been left in that abyss, he could have been left in there…But he was not, he was not abandoned to his own evil, to his own damnation. The hand was outstretched, while he was searching for it, and he took it. He continued to cling to that hand, never for a moment loosening his grasp on it.

'Believe thou are free from thy sin?'

Maglor nodded vigorously.

'Believe thou all will be amended in time?'

'Yes...'

'Believe thou that thou shalt be restored to life?'

Maglor fell all the way down to the floor, still holding on.

'Then sleep, my child. Thou shalt not see Mandos. Sleep.'

Maglor thought his heart would be pounding so hard it would burst. He had peace, but the excitement was still there.

He was going to be alright…He was going to be alright…He was going to be alright…

He…

* * *

Mithrandir held the shuddering body of Maglor while he endured this spiritual battle. The Noldo made no sound beyond a weak whimper, so no one waiting for Valinor to come into sight could see the drama unfolding right in the Maia's arms.

Maglor made another sound and his tremblings started to cease.

Mithrandir lifted his head to see the servant of Námo holding the elf's spirit: the breath that gives life. It took a few short seconds for Maglor's body to realize that was gone, before it ceased to function all together.

Maglor indeed would not see Mandos. Unlike most elves, he had plead for forgiveness and trusted that, with full intention of changing when he awoke to life once more, and thus needed not spend time in that prison like a criminal of man would: to reflect, to lose their stubbornness and arrogance. Learn they were in the wrong. Give them a chance to live in harmony with the Song of their own will.

Mithrandir carefully lowered the body: a body that looked like it came out of a tomb after a few decades since it died. The Maia covered the elf's face with one of the many blankets Maglor had been wrapped in.

There was a cheer, and when Mithrandir looked, the glory of the West shone brightly. All the elves, especially the hobbits, were joyful.

Elrond turned, beaming. He was approaching the mattress, but his expression fell into despair when he saw Mithrandir getting up, and saw the remains of his adopted father covered completely.

"No…" The half-elf said in anguish.

The hobbits turned. Bilbo let out a gasp and lifted a hand to his mouth.

"Oh master Elrond, I am so sorry."

Galadriel bowed her head.

"Be at peace." The Maia said in a gruff voice, "He is at peace now."

All eyes turned to him, especially Elrond.

"But he…he…" The half-elf could not voice it out.

Mithrandir embraced him, "He believed firmly he was free, Elrond. He will come back when Eru sees him fit to be returned to life. Let him rest for a time: let him remember his troubles no more."

Elrond gave a shuddering sigh.

"Come now; let us see what awaits you." Mithrandir smiled encouragingly, "A new life."


	9. Restored

_Arise, my son: be thou restored._

…would be alright.

Maglor breathed: the largest breath he had ever taken to his memory. Ai, and this was the deepest sleep he thought he had ever experienced, and that was saying much, given he had never slept much in recent time. When he did, it tormented him with dreams.

He detected nothing at first, still in that place between waking and sleep. Touch was the first thing: he was covered by something soft and light, and beneath him was also soft, but not a mattress.

Hearing came next…

"Olórin, Olórin! He is waking up finally! Olórin!"

'Olórin is in Valinor…He cannot be here, on the shores of the eastern land.' Maglor mused.

There was a lot of rustling of plants, and someone running across the grass. It took a couple of moments as Maglor strained his eyes to open.

He beheld an ent-wife looking at him from above, and the face on the tree that was the ent was smiling.

Maglor sat up straight at the sight, and the ent-wife hummed-chuckled. The elf tried to rack his brain together, but he could not help but stare at the tree.

His attention drifted to the person who came in front of him: the being with the silver hair and the cloud-colored skin.

Olórin.

The Maia smiled at the elf.

Maglor opened and closed his mouth. Something…the memory, it was right _there_ , within reach!

"Be still, Macalaurë." Olórin said softly. He took the Noldo by the wrist and helped him to stand.

Maglor felt strong…he felt stronger and more assured in his posture than he had for a long time. It was something he had not bothered thinking about for a while actually. He did not even notice that he was left standing tall and straight without any help.

The elf saw a small pond nearby and he walked to it and fell to his knees. When he looked into the pool, he saw himself: whole, strong, _young_. Alive. He wore nothing but a simple robe. He patted himself down and looked at his hands. They were smooth and without callous like they have never seen a day of hard labor.

Then, it all came back to him, and his star-lit eyes glistened with humble tears. He bowed himself down to the earth and wept.

Olórin and the other, Aiwendil, who came to get him, came to the elf and laid one hand comfortingly on each shoulder.

"But…" Maglor said confused, looking to the Maiar, "I deserve none of this…I never had the chance to…"

"No one can come back to the top after even one mistake, Macalaurë." Olórin said softly again. No accusing, no hate, no anger…just factual.

"Why, then? I have slighted against you all. I am no better than my father."

Aiwendil and Olórin looked at each other, then back at the elf.

"Because," The servant of Manwë said as he pulled Maglor to his feet again, "The All-father loves you, and would do anything to have you returned to him and to the untainted lines in the Song."

Maglor looked unsure and he hugged himself.

"Do not fear, child. You sought out the forgiveness that was offered to you: offered to all who seek it out, and believed in it."

"But I will fall again…"

"While the world lasts Morgoth's taint will still be in it and will affect all who are in it. But it is your duty, if you make a serious slight, to beseech forgiveness once more and to move on, striving to not make the same mistake again in the future." Olórin lifted the elf's chin up, "If you know you did wrong, do not try and drown it. It will eat away at you forever."

Maglor knew the consequences too well. He pressed his lips into a thin line, and looked about. By long memory he knew he was in Lórien, "What…do I do now? What _should_ I do?"

"Let yourself have peace for a while, Maglor, but you should seek out your family."

Maglor bowed his head to the Maiar.

Olorin stepped back, "Go now."

The elf hesitated for a moment, but he looked to a path that led away from the glade and he walked. He was afraid, but he would try all his hardest to live the way he should have lived. He was not going to be a nomad anymore…he would be evidence of mercy and grace to the Higher's glory.

He walked for some time, he did not know how long. The tall trees loomed overhead, and the Noldo looked up, giving thanks repeatedly many times in his head.

"Macalaurë!"

His eyes turned to the one…ones, who called his name, and his heart lifted. The red heads, the freckled faces, the silver eyes…

"Ambarussa." He whispered.

The twins ran to him, and when they landed into their older brother Maglor almost fell over. He wrapped his arms around them, shocked, disbelief, but overwhelming joy was on him. He pulled them back to look at their faces. They were crying silently.

"You came back." They said simultaneously.

"You are alive." Maglor said brokenly and pulled them back close to him, pressing his face into the top of their heads. Oh, the memory of their deaths: Amras' especially, was horribly vivid. But they were alive. Alive…they were whole…Could that mean more?

He looked up and beheld his mother. Nerdanel had aged: not too much, but she had changed. She smiled softly at her second son.

Maglor tore himself gently away from the twins (his twins…his brothers), but they reattached themselves a moment later and they walked. The second son knelt down and bowed his head when he approached his mother.

"Stand up." Nerdanel ordered gently.

Maglor did so.

The old widowed elf-maid looked him up and down, sighing, "Well…that is three out of eight of my men returned."

Maglor could not help but look ashamed.

He was surprised when his mother suddenly embraced him like the Ambarussa: like she would never let go.

"But you were the one I had my hopes on." Nerdanel said tearfully, "I always knew you had the most sense…I missed you so, my son."

"I missed you as well, Ammë…" Maglor whispered.

Twins, mother, and returned second son hugged each other. Smothered each other…

Everything was right in their world at that moment. A joyous moment, and others unseen rejoiced with them.

'Thank you, All-father.' Maglor thought in his heart.

Now, he could truly start his life.

This was the beginning…

* * *

 _A/N Well, here comes the end of this tale, after one year. Thank you very much everyone for following and favoriting, and especially the ones who reviewed._

 _I have had recent struggles recently, but with God's grace and strength, one can overcome all of it. For others: I hope you may have learned something from reading this, inspired perhaps, but if not: still, may life treat you well. :)_


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